


L'Histoire d'Obi

by Lilith Sedai (TAFKAB)



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: BDSM, Bondage and Discipline, Branding, Heavy BDSM, M/M, Sexual Slavery, Undercover Missions, Whipping, not always safe sane and consensual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-20 09:40:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 63,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11333178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TAFKAB/pseuds/Lilith%20Sedai
Summary: Obi-Wan neglects to pay careful attention to a briefing, agrees to accept an unusual mission assignment, and lets himself and Qui-Gon in for more trouble than either of them bargained for.





	L'Histoire d'Obi

**Author's Note:**

> ACKNOWLEDGMENTS: To Smutster Queen Kirby, for extensive, multiple, and thorough beta readings, hand-holding, lavish praise, and invaluable advice, without which this story would never have made it past a PWP! To Saraid, for permission to use the Grand Dance. To BlackRose and Analise, for the scrumptious illustrations of Obi-Wan enslaved. To Marnee and Lorelei for grammar betas and months of encouragement, and to them and LapisLaz, Iroshi, Enju, and Kalia for extensive IRC coddling, plot assistance, and much-needed goading. Finally, thanks to all of the above for putting up with my agonized squealing and foul temper every time this thing stalled on me. You have my unending thanks, ladies. :)
> 
> For those knowledgeable of the bondage genre: Yes, I borrowed a bit from Gor, but since Norman hates all Gor fanfic, I ultimately decided against making this the crossover it began its existence as.

**Part 1-- Beginnings**

Obi-Wan Kenobi and Qui-Gon Jinn stood shoulder to shoulder, listening to the Council's briefing on their upcoming mission. Mace Windu leaned forward, measured sentences leaving him one after another. Only half-listening, Obi-Wan catalogued them. Slavery, it seemed, was one disturbing element of a new planet that wanted to join the Republic for trading purposes. Since slavery on Ria had religious overtones and the Republic officially supported religious freedom, their petition would be investigated for consideration rather than rejected outright. It fell to the Jedi to determine if the society were suitable despite it. Unfortunately for the Riadans, slavery had both sexual and labor-related aspects, neither of which boded well for their admission into the Republic.

Yadda, yadda, yadda.

Obi-Wan stifled a sigh. Plain-vanilla missions, one after another. All as boring as they could possibly be. Diplomatic receptions. Guided tours. Polite formality. He stifled a yawn, blanking his mind so that the Jedi Masters would not be able to read his boredom...

... and suddenly, unsure of how much time had passed, he realized that Mace was speaking about an entirely different aspect of the mission. He had permitted his thoughts to wander too far and missed the last several minutes of the briefing.

"It is particularly important to your personal safety that you conduct the roles we have prepared for you in a manner consistent with Riadan culture," Windu was saying soberly. "The Riadans have never before attempted extraplanetary contact. As a result, their worldview is understandably somewhat provincial and perhaps even xenophobic. They will find it difficult to comprehend the existence and respect the values of cultures other than their own. Because of this, their ambassadors have not yet been given any information regarding the political and social conventions of the Republic. After meeting with the Riadan Ambassadors, the Supreme Chancellor concurred with the Council that it will be easier for you to obtain a true impression of their culture if they do not know how to tailor their appearances to meet your expectations."

The Councilor shifted slightly to escape a stray beam of sunlight, continuing. "Also, our initial observations of the Riadans indicate that they are a highly volatile people, a warrior people. You must earn their respect and trust so that they will be open with you about their culture. This may not always entail typical diplomatic tact," he warned. "Confrontation may become a necessity from time to time." His eyes flickered at Qui-Gon, a slight wryness visible in them that suggested he believed the Jedi Master would be more than capable of handling such a requirement.

He continued. "The cultural restrictions they voluntarily place upon their weapons technology forbids you to carry energy weapons, including your lightsabers. The level of technological development on Ria has not progressed beyond simple radio reception and transmission. The Riadan King's ship was furnished to the embassy as a diplomatic courtesy by the Senate so that trade negotiations might proceed. You will return with it." Qui-Gon nodded and Obi-Wan followed suit hastily, pretending he understood what was going on.

Windu paused, seeming uncharacteristically worried for a moment before his normally smooth façade reasserted itself automatically. "The Riadans know little of the Republic and nothing of the Jedi. Therefore, the Council has decided that you must operate as though undercover, only revealing your Jedi powers if it becomes absolutely necessary." Windu sighed.

"The roles I have described for each of you have been researched as carefully as we were able, but it is possible that there are gaps in our knowledge, likely serious ones. Little is known of Ria. You were hand-picked for this because of each of your personalities, your strength in the Force, and the depth of your Master/padawan commitment -- especially the level of cooperation and trust between you." He hesitated, eyeing Obi-wan meaningfully. "Also, Obi-Wan, you were chosen because of your high level of combat readiness and your physical beauty."

Only Mace Windu could have pronounced such words and make them sound uncomplimentary. Obi-Wan suppressed a smirk and a flicker of worry. Beauty? Why? But the Councilor was summing up.

"The Council feels that, together, you are the Jedi team best equipped to confront this mission and deal successfully with the special challenges and dangers it may bring." He leaned back in his chair.

Obi-Wan felt a flicker of worry, but shrugged it off. The Council was almost always overcautious.

"Accept this mission do you, Obi-Wan Kenobi?" Yoda focused on him almost suspiciously, as though the small Master guessed he had been woolgathering. Obi-Wan nearly jerked with surprise. By custom, it was the Master who accepted or declined the council's assignments, not the padawan.

"Yes, Master Yoda," he heard himself say smoothly, automatically trying to cover up his lapse with a polished front of reliability. Besides, Qui-Gon had only rarely declined mission assignments, and those for reasons of prior commitment.

"Hmmmf. Thought that you would, I did," Yoda remarked cryptically, shifting his feet and settling his robes. Obi-wan hazarded the tiniest glance at Qui-Gon, who stood placid, face entirely inscrutable. Obi-Wan again felt a shiver of unease shoot through his spine. There was a dynamic here that he did not like, some silent thing. He reached out for a sense of Qui-Gon's emotions, but his Master's emotional aura was cool and smooth as usual, revealing no more than Windu's or Yoda's. He felt a sinking sensation in his gut. Master Mace had tried to warn him, but he had acted in haste and shame, and had dived straight into some unknown responsibility that he would likely wind up regretting sorely.

Oh, well. He had committed them. Qui-Gon would simply have to catch him up on anything important when the time came. Maybe Obi-Wan would even be lucky enough that his ignorance would not be exposed. Yeah. And Hutts would sprout wings and fly.

*****

As padawan, it was his duty to care for the luggage, loading it aboard the hoverskiff that would carry them to their transport. Obi-Wan had done it a hundred times, but this time there seemed to be several more, and much heavier, trunks than usual. Still, he resisted using the Force, preferring to hone his physical strength with honest labor. His muscles strained and sweat darkened the cloth under the sleeves of his robe as he piled the trunks in the cargo bay, listening to various metallic clankings from some of them. He made a mental note to ask Qui-Gon exactly why he had filled his luggage with metal.

"It isn't all metal." Qui-Gon had overheard his grumpy muttering. "Some of it's leather." His Master chuckled, a deep throaty sound with overtones of unease that made Obi-Wan begin to wish he'd listened far more carefully to Master Mace's briefing.

"And it's not my luggage." Qui-Gon laid his hand on his apprentice's sweating back. "It's yours."

Obi-Wan straightened, blinking at Qui-Gon. "It is?" he asked uncertainly.

"I have warned you before about allowing your mind to wander during briefings, Padawan." Qui-Gon's eyes sparkled with mischief. "You declined your rightful option to turn down this mission. Now ... we must accept the consequences." Qui-Gon smiled. He decided to keep those consequences to himself for just a little longer. It would teach Obi-Wan a valuable lesson about paying attention, and there seemed little chance of serious repercussions from his padawan's ignorance since the role set out for Obi-Wan meant Qui-Gon would be totally in command of their activities on this mission. The voyage to Ria should give them a few days for Obi-Wan to adjust to the idea of what he had unknowingly undertaken. Qui-Gon settled his palm on his padawan's shoulder, gently leading him to their seat in the hoverskiff.

Obi-Wan swallowed nervously, sparing a single backward glance for the trunks he'd placed in the cargo bay. There was no time to investigate their contents now. He followed his Master on board, mentally chiding himself for his willful negligence.

He had a bad feeling about this....

**Part 2 -- Initiations**

They arrived at the transport from Coruscant in plenty of time. Qui-Gon led Obi-Wan toward the large, flat vehicle, keeping up a serene commentary to soothe Obi-Wan's nerves. "Remember, Obi-Wan..." Qui-Gon began earnestly, and his padawan rolled his eyes.

"Feel, don't think. Trust my instincts," Obi-Wan cut his Master off with amusement, mimicking Qui-Gon's intonation of the oft-repeated phrase. "Yes, Master. I will, Master."

Qui-Gon noticed one of the boarding guards directing a narrow look at Obi-Wan and realized his padawan was out of character. "That's not all," he said sharply. "You must remember to live in the moment. Let the Living Force guide you, padawan. You have not paid enough attention to your responsibilities recently and are not adequately prepared for this journey."

Obi-Wan wilted visibly and the guard relaxed. Qui-Gon released a sigh. "Keep silent until we are in our cabin," he directed.

"Yes, Master."

Obi-Wan was simultaneously relieved and made uneasy by their arrival at the sleeping quarters. Their luggage was within, and when Qui-Gon excused himself to use the small 'fresher cubicle, Obi-Wan was on his feet immediately, reaching for the lid of the topmost trunk, disengaging the lock with the print of his thumb and throwing the top back.

"What the...?" The chest was filled with leather straps and buckles and bits of metal and chain. He scuffled through it, bewildered. One piece seemed identifiable -- a pair of metal wristlets something akin to restraining cuffs, but with a three-inch length of free chain between them and with crude iron locks.

The rest of it looked like refuse from a tack-room. He lifted a piece of leather, wondering what kind of creature it had been made to harness. Far too small for a tauntaun or most other riding beasts. In fact, it might just fit around his own chest. He drew the leather against himself, testing its size, and his frown deepened. Tossing it aside, he tried one wrist carefully in the manacles. They fit as though made to his measure.

He tossed them away, too, and snatched out another item. A large round iron ring with a far smaller ring attached, inscribed with unfamiliar alien writing. Its usefulness had originally escaped him, but now his eyes picked out a join, hinge, and keyhole. Obi-Wan swallowed again, wondering about the diameter of his neck and the diameter of the circle in his hands, suddenly and inexplicably certain that they were equal. That would explain the glint of humor in Qui-Gon's eyes earlier....

Surely this couldn't be. He was just being paranoid. No, he wasn't.

He set the ... collar ... aside and dug deeper in the box, pulling out a random array of straps that he could not sort into any coherent shape or guess a use for. Then there were more cuffs, these of leather, and a set of two that were big enough for ankles, and two that looked large enough for thighs -- wild-eyed, he flung an accusing gaze at the door as it opened and Qui-Gon re-entered the sleeping chamber.

Decorum be damned.

"What the hell is this stuff and who is it for?" He already knew the answer.

Qui-Gon gazed at the mess on the floor surrounding Obi-Wan and his mouth quirked, ever-so-slightly, as though he would have liked to smile. He reached into the pocket of his robes and withdrew a set of documents, holding them out to Obi-Wan.

"Slave papers, proving ownership of Obi-Wan Kenobi?" Obi-Wan sputtered, the documents rattling between his hands. In spite of himself, he was very nearly stunned with disbelief. The words on that document would be regarded as legally binding on a hundred worlds.

Qui-Gon moved to the side, reaching for and retrieving one of the discarded items, reading over his padawan's shoulder as Obi-Wan began to snarl the words aloud.

"'Obi-Wan Kenobi, pleasure slave, is hereby certified the sole and exclusive property of Master Qui-Gon Jinn....'" He faltered to a halt. Pleasure slave?

Obi-Wan ceased breathing suddenly as cold metal closed around his throat with an audible click. Qui-Gon's hands slid to his padawan's shoulders, even as Obi- Wan's darted up to tug at the obdurate, unyielding metal that fit snugly around his throat. Qui-Gon's voice was warm in Obi-Wan's ear.

"I thought you were weary of routine diplomatic missions, Obi-Wan." His low rumble of a voice was filled with teasing, and Obi-Wan could almost see the mischievous half-smile his Master wore.

"I am, but--!" Obi-Wan realized his voice was a squeak. He fell silent. He remembered enough of the briefing to understand what such a role would imply. He simply had not realized that he was to play the part of Qui-Gon's slave, though he was forced to admit reluctantly that it made sense, given the inequality of their training relationship. What disturbed him was that according to the information he had caught during the briefing, he would be expected to labor and obey -- and since he had been labeled a pleasure slave, a large portion of his labors were understood by the Riadans to be confined to his Master's bed.

Obi-Wan struggled to squelch the panic he experienced at being collared. The realization of the role he was now expected to fulfill worsened it, filling him with ambiguous emotions that he was afraid to examine under his Master's alert eye. To be Qui-Gon's slave. His pleasure slave. A delicious heat shuddered through him, spiking hard in his loins, and he swallowed thickly, trying to quash the flow of lust before Qui-Gon could read the signs of it in him. Though Obi-Wan knew he could never deny his Master anything he wanted, he also knew that Qui-Gon would never dream of touching him in a sexual way, especially not during a mission ... best not even to let himself consider it. Qui-Gon's intuitions were razor sharp, and he was fully capable of reading more in the flicker of his apprentice's eyelash than another man would comprehend from an impassioned confession.

Obi-Wan chose to focus on his fear instead. His fingers knotted to fists as well as they could around the tight, wide band of the collar, testing its unyielding strength.

"Take it off," he requested, proud of how steady his voice remained. "I wasn't ready."

"I'm sorry, Obi-Wan. I cannot." Qui-Gon moved from behind his padawan, looking into Obi-Wan's eyes. "This is a Riadan transport, with a Riadan crew. We must assume our roles immediately." Qui-Gon's eyes now held genuine sympathy, the earlier amusement fled in the face of Obi-Wan's obvious distress. "It is bad enough that you boarded the ship while speaking your mind freely. One of the guards noticed your..." Qui-Gon hesitated, searching for the proper word, "impertinence." Qui-Gon sighed. "I would not want to be forced to punish you publicly."

"Punish me?" Obi-Wan realized he was squeaking again, and realized that Qui-Gon was so close that he could feel the older man's warmth against his face, feel Qui-Gon's breath on his cheeks. He let his tongue flicker out and nervously wet his lips.

"As Master Windu warned us, the Riadans are ... harsh people, and demanding. They have been seen to punish displeasing slaves frequently, claiming it deepens their slavery and enhances their performance. I do not know what that punishment entails, but I believe it is something we both would prefer to avoid." Qui-Gon spoke sincerely. "So I suggest you attempt to appear fully pleasing."

Obi-Wan felt his mouth go dry, both from the force of his ... his Master's ... closeness and from the implied threat that it might not be possible to avoid punishment for public error. "How -- how," he struggled to modulate his panicked tones, "can I do that?"

Qui-Gon shrugged, simply but eloquently. "Proper behavior. Proper attire. Your behavior must be obedient, attentive, and efficient. Your attire...." For the first time, a true look of discomfort crossed Qui-Gon's face. Obi-Wan wasn't taking this with his typical aplomb, and it began to worry him. He'd expected this to roll off Obi-Wan like water from a duck's back, but it hadn't, and it was about to get worse. Sighing mentally, Qui-Gon took the plunge. "Riadan slaves are typically kept only minimally clad."

Obi-Wan, still standing with his hands clutching his collar, stared with disbelief at Qui-Gon, wondering just exactly what "minimally" meant. Jedi, though enlightened, were secretive as a rule, and therefore typically very protective of bodily modesty. Obi-Wan was no exception, particularly since he had begun to grow aware of his strong sexual feelings for Qui-Gon, who was reaching for the flaps of Obi-Wan's outer robe even as his padawan dithered.

Before Obi-Wan could react, Qui-Gon's big hands caught his wrists, pulling his apprentice's palms away from the collar and letting them fall. His long blunt fingers gently slid beneath the edges of Obi-Wan's cloak, brushing against the tunics that covered his chest, gliding up to his shoulders, pushing back the heavy material. Though Obi-Wan was still clad in three layers of tunic, trousers, boots, socks, and underwear, he felt horribly exposed already, exposed and vulnerable. He felt as though the metal collar locked on his neck had glowing neon arrows pointing toward it, and he shuddered involuntarily as Qui-Gon's fingers accidentally brushed the skin above it as they withdrew and let his robe slide to the deck. Qui-Gon, undressing him. His knees quivered, and he swayed almost imperceptibly, but the Jedi Master sensed it.

Qui-Gon hesitated, pulling his hands away. He hadn't meant to touch Obi-Wan; his hands seemed to have moved of their own accord. The startled, vulnerable expression in his padawan's crystalline eyes was intoxicating. Qui-Gon could not begin to analyze the depths of emotion he could read there. Though apprehension was uppermost, there was also Obi-Wan's trust for him, and something he could not quite put his finger on, somewhere in the depths.

Qui-Gon resisted the unworthy impulse to interpret it from the perspective of his own experience and his own needs. Obi-Wan was almost irresistible in his uncertainty, but Qui-Gon steeled himself, as he had done ever since he had first begun to realize that he had inappropriate feelings for his young padawan. Without ease, but with the quiet determination of long practice, Qui-Gon set aside his forbidden desire. Obi-Wan needed him to be strong and reliable now. He could not let his unworthy emotions victimize the vulnerable apprentice who stood before him, his throat locked in a slave collar with Qui-Gon's name inscribed upon it in the tiny, graceful, flowing characters of Riadan script.

Obi-Wan was still hesitating to undress, perhaps trying to read Qui-Gon's eyes while Qui-Gon was lost in his. Slowly, stilling a tremor in his fingers, Qui-Gon reached again, tugging the stola out of Obi-Wan's belt on either side of its heavy buckle. He could almost drown in the energy of the living Force that surrounded him and bound him to his apprentice at this moment, the depth of the young man's trust singing and vibrating around him until he thought he might begin to glow. With both arms, he reached forward, lifting the cloth from around Obi-Wan's neck, ensuring that it did not snag on the collar.

Qui-Gon drew back, folding the cloth again and again, until it was a small roll in his hands. He stepped away, struggling to maintain his composure, and used the Force to call Obi-Wan's robe to him, shaking the wrinkles and floor-dust from it, tucking it carefully away in his own belongings, trying to deaden his ears to the rustling that had begun behind him. Then he tried not to notice the clunk of heavy boots and the patter of skin against metal deck-plating. There was another clunk, softer -- Obi-Wan's belt, hitting the floor next to his boots. More rustling, just a whisper now, and then it stopped, and there was the faintest of sounds, that of skin against skin as a body straightened and held itself upright, clad only in air.

And his collar.

Qui-Gon swallowed his emotions down tight, refusing to examine them before he willed them to numbness and turned, his expression bland and placid. With the self-restraint gained in the lifetime training of a Jedi Master, he hardly glanced at Obi-Wan even as he stepped toward the young man and began to gather some of the things Obi-Wan had scattered about. They would soon be in constant contact with Riadans, and Obi-Wan had to be readied.

Qui-Gon decided it would be best to adhere to the strictest letter of the appearances required by the roles they had to play. If he kept Obi-Wan fully nude and in bonds, the young man's beauty and apparent helplessness would be so enticing that he could hardly help but please even the most fastidious Riadan Masters they might encounter.

Even the fleeting glimpses that penetrated his stoic inattention were nearly enough to set his skin aflame. Obi-Wan stood straight, collared, his eyes closed, as though by failing to witness his own shame, he could prevent Qui-Gon from seeing it. Qui-Gon's hands were shaking openly now, and he was glad that Obi-Wan's eyes were shut, glad that his own hands were concealed within the belly of the opened trunk, selecting a pair of leather wristlets.

"Don't be afraid, Obi-Wan." Qui-Gon knew his voice was too husky, almost hoarse. "Your body is nothing to be ashamed of." Gently, he reached and took Obi-Wan's left wrist, trying not to let himself see more than the limb he now held, and slid the leather cuff about Obi-Wan's surprisingly narrow wristbone, tightening the strap and buckling it. He swallowed thickly, still struggling to contain his emotions and hide them even from himself. Then he took Obi-Wan's right wrist and treated it similarly, but he removed the short length of chain that would have bound his padawan's arms tightly behind his back.

He caught up the simple leather harness from where Obi-Wan had dropped it and opened its buckles, studying it before draping it experimentally over the young man's body. His padawan flinched from the first touch of the cool leather, but then stood still, permitting Qui-Gon to fit the straps tightly but carefully to him. Two broad, plain brown leather straps curved over his padawan's shoulders, connected by a narrow breastband just below the collarbone and a wide iron-studded waistband that circled around the young man's middle slightly above the navel, tightening via an adjustable strap and buckle in the back center. There were more pieces that could be affixed to the harness if Qui-Gon wished for it to confine Obi-Wan's upper arms and thighs, but he left them in the chest, satisfied that the chest harness was sufficient to give Obi-Wan an illusion of covering.

The young man was trembling slightly, and Qui-Gon strove not to touch his skin more than was unavoidable, almost afraid that a spark might crackle between them from the electricity of the tension building in the room.

At last the harness was affixed, and Qui-Gon forced himself to add the final touch, clipping a thin leather leash to the ring in Obi-Wan's collar. Qui-Gon swallowed, trying to bring moisture into his dry mouth. Experimentally, but very gently, he pulled the leash taut. Obi-Wan's eyes opened, the blue hazy, almost dazed, and he stared at Qui-Gon as though he had forgotten everything that was occurring, perhaps even his own name.

Qui-Gon forced himself to speak. "I must greet the embassy. Await me here, my padawan. Review the data files for our mission with your role in mind."

"Yes, Master." Obi-Wan's voice was low and nervous, but sweet, and Qui-Gon felt it tug at him powerfully. He hesitated for a moment, but his presence was required by the Riadans. The process of diplomacy must begin.

Resolutely, Qui-Gon dropped the leash and set forth, leaving his padawan behind him.

Obi-Wan was relieved beyond belief when Qui-Gon finally turned from him and strode out the door of their quarters. His Master's eyes had weighed even heavier than the collar about his neck, and he was glad to have a little time to recover his composure and grow used to the sensation of his nudity before Qui-Gon returned. Obi-Wan moved himself experimentally, feeling the weight of the bonds he wore, feeling the unaccustomed brush of air against his bare skin.

Hesitantly he wandered into the 'fresher cubicle, seeking a mirror. Fortunately there was a wide full-length mirror on the back of the door. He blinked at the reflection that faced him inside it. He looked like he felt ... very unusual. He looked as though the hard edge of Jedi confidence and competence had been shorn from him, leaving a younger, more uncertain man. He tilted his head experimentally, lifting his chin and letting his lips part. The effect increased.

Obi-Wan supposed this was a good thing; body language was a very important part of any charade. Standing before the mirror, he forced himself to relax, to feel submission and supplication, to feel the weight and constraint of the bonds on him. He moved experimentally, changing the way he stood, changing the way he felt, changing the way he breathed. Closing his eyes, he stood for a long moment, letting the careful changes settle into him. He summoned the most vivid mental picture of an angry Qui-Gon that he could muster, taking his inspiration from the memory of a confrontation that had occurred over a rather appallingly idiotic adolescent infraction. He pictured how his Master's handsome features twisted in disgust, the blazing blue eyes narrow as the Jedi, furious, bent a fierce glare on him. Obi-Wan shuddered involuntarily, opening his eyes, and saw a terrified slave looking out at him. It was damned convincing. He shook it off a touch smugly, satisfied. He could do this, then.

Obi-Wan laughed suddenly, realizing that his own vulnerability had somehow restored his self-confidence. An interesting paradox. Leaving the cubicle, he searched for and found the data reader Qui-Gon had recommended, absorbing himself in the information it contained, re-evaluating it from the perspective of the slave he was to be.

*****

Qui-Gon strode down the narrow corridor. A guard met his questioning eyes and directed him aft, and Qui-Gon followed the crisp gesture until another guard shunted him aside into a set of quarters that were twice the size of the ones Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan had been given. A small, very short, very fat, white-haired man sat there, smoking a pipe peaceably, attended by two advisers and a small scattering of slaves.

The information given at the briefing had identified the Riadan officials for the Jedi Master: the heavy older man was Ahar, King of Ria, the younger one his son Qal, and the third was a broad, dangerous-looking man who had been identified to him as Corm, High Priest of the Riadan Temple. Qui-Gon knew that Ahar and Corm had been instrumental in funding the development of receiver and transmitter technology that had permitted the Riadans first to discover the existence of extraplanetary intelligence and later to make the efforts to contact it that had eventually led to diplomatic overtures between Ria and the Republic, beginning with the Chancellor sending a transport to bring the Riadan diplomats to Coruscant and culminating in the Riadans' request for trading privileges. The primitive communications equipment that had made this possible was the finest technological achievement of Riadan society, but the effort to reach beyond their boundaries and attract Galactic notice had been a naive one at best. The Riadans were lucky that their experimental transmissions had been intercepted rapidly by an exploratory expedition that had quickly recognized their planet and populace as a long-forgotten humanoid resettlement project and wisely steered them toward contact with the Senate. It could as easily have been received by pirates or gangsters who would have taken great pleasure and profit in exploiting the vulnerable planet and its populace.

The Jedi Master bowed formally, hands clasped inside his sleeves, aware of the aura of mystery lent by his flowing cloak and deep cowl. A slave moved forward, offering him a drink, and Qui-Gon accepted, touching the beverage to his lips ritually, not really tasting it.

"Welcome aboard, Ambassador Jinn." Ahar took the long, curved pipe from his lips and lazily tapped out the ashes into a bowl held aloft for them by a kneeling young boy. "I trust your quarters are to your satisfaction."

"Yes, your Majesty." Qui-Gon bowed again, slightly deeper. "Quite." He stepped further into the room, giving the high priest and the king's son brief nods of their own.

"It is borrowed hospitality," Qal commented, a touch of bitterness accenting his low voice. "But we are honored to offer it nonetheless."

Qui-Gon did not miss the narrow, slitted stare Corm cast at the young man. The King, tamping new-grated leaves into his pipe, missed the small interaction. Qui-Gon filed the dynamics of the discussion automatically, gauging the power of the three men, watching its balance. A great deal of tension here, instability. Rivalry.

"My son, Qal," Ahar murmured, neutral. "My steward and closest advisor, the High Priest of the Riadan Temple, Corm." He nodded toward the men respectively, and Qui-Gon met Qal's firm nod and accepted Corm's strong handclasp.

"We have much to discuss." Qui-Gon spoke smoothly. "It is an honor to meet you."

"And you, Ambassador Jinn." Corm's smile was oily. Qal merely nodded, somber.

The small pleasantries finished, Corm opened his arms expansively, partly blocking Qui-Gon's view of King Ahar. "On behalf of his Majesty, Ahar of Ria, I wish to invite you to the public feasting tonight in the audience chamber, Ambassador Jinn," Corm offered with the smooth confidence of long practice.

Interesting. Qui-Gon angled his gaze toward the priest without turning his body from the monarch, letting his eyes meet the shorter man's. Interesting indeed, that the King did not extend the invitation himself. From another ruler, Qui-Gon might have thought it a calculated insult. Here ... he was not so sure. Ahar was absorbed in his pipe, sucking a small flame into the bowl, working to create a smooth draw. Qui-Gon wondered not at all idly what the leaf he smoked might contain.

"I would be honored to attend." Qui-Gon directed his bow to the King rather than to Corm, and was not surprised to see a brittle flicker of anger in the priest's eyes. Subtle dynamics of power. Might the priest supply the leaf the King used? It was not an idea to be dismissed lightly.

"Ready yourself, then, Ambassador Jinn." The King was finally satisfied with his pipe. "Return to your quarters and freshen yourself. At the eighth hour we shall enjoy a fine meal and entertainment, and with our slaves we shall enjoy together the bounty that nature has provided. Tomorrow there will be time to begin the process of diplomacy." The King gave Qui-Gon a broad wink, and then shared a smile with the priest. Qal, who had receded subtly into the background, did not quite hide his scowl.

"Yes, your Majesty." Qui-Gon bowed his way out and returned to Obi-Wan.

*****

When Qui-Gon let himself in to their quarters, he found his padawan lying curled on the single narrow sleeping couch, poring over the information in the data reader. The Jedi Master jerked his eyes away quickly, having half-forgotten Obi-Wan's state of near-undress. There were perhaps thirty minutes left until the eighth hour, and that time suddenly seemed very lengthy, since it was to be shared with a chained vision of youthful masculine beauty whose near-nudity made Qui-Gon extremely uncomfortable at best.

He tried not to glance at his padawan. He'd placed the leather harness on the young man in hopes of giving Obi-Wan a comforting illusion of clothing, but if anything, the leather straps emphasized his padawan's nudity, enhancing it in a degrading way. Qui-Gon decided he would remove it ... as soon as he worked up his courage to touch Obi-Wan again.

Obi-Wan immediately flipped the off-switch and set the reader aside. He glanced back at Qui-Gon, shyly shifting to bring his legs together, and the Jedi Master was unsurprised when Obi-wan rolled from his stomach to his back, a little too casually gathering the blanket with him and swathing his lower body in it.

"You will attend me at the feasting tonight," Qui-Gon instructed. They must begin acting the role in their quarters, as well. Given the uneasy balance of power between the Riadan rulers he had met, it would not be surprising if a variety of intrigues were in process aboard the ship. Such intrigues would inevitably be brought to bear upon the newcomers. Qui-Gon cast out with his senses, searching for surveillance. Not yet. Good. Their earlier discussion had not betrayed them, then.

Obi-Wan nodded seriously, stretching his shoulders. Qui-Gon moved and retrieved the data reader his padawan had set aside, packing it away in a trunk with their lightsabers and emergency medical equipment. They must not be observed using technological devices on board.

He began fidgeting with their belongings to pass the time, and Obi-Wan rose to help him unpack, as a good slave should. Qui-Gon was able to withstand perhaps two minutes with his beautiful, naked padawan at his side before he retired to the 'fresher for an unnecessary wash.

He emerged punctually, leaving just enough time for them to find their way to the feasting chamber. Obi-Wan rose from the sleeping couch to meet him, and Qui-Gon avoided the young man's eyes, reaching instead to clasp the wrist manacles behind Obi-Wan's back by reattaching the short length of chain. Quickly he unbuckled the harness he had placed on Obi-Wan so recently, uncomfortably avoiding the question in Obi-Wan's eyes as he tossed it aside onto the narrow bed. Then he wordlessly took up the leash he had fastened earlier to the ring in Obi-Wan's collar. It extended between them as he stepped forward.

Obi-Wan, too, was subtly relieved that the silent, uncomfortable period of time was at an end. His relief was short-lived, though, as the extent of the leash was reached and he was forced to follow across the cabin and through the door. Obi-Wan centered himself psychologically, deliberately separating his identity and Qui-Gon's from the roles they now played. He was his own man, free, and could stop the charade or take control at any time. His nudity was only part of that charade; the leather restraints he wore touched only skin, not soul. Qui-Gon ... Qui-Gon was his Master, but Obi-Wan was not a slave. Obi-Wan would be protected, not abused.

The stolen moments of meditation helped him regain clarity. Obi-Wan felt himself striding more confidently, but he was also aware that the walk was not his usual gait. As he had observed in the mirror, there was something different about him now, something that reached further than the absence of the boots to which he was accustomed. Something that his intuition told him had to do with the collar around his neck, and the way Qui-Gon had fastened it upon him without waiting to obtain Obi-Wan's permission. Something that had to do with the way Qui-Gon's fingertips had tried to avoid his flesh, but had failed, and had very nearly burned Obi-Wan each time they touched him. Something about how Qui-Gon had buckled the leather harness onto his body as though to make an excuse for touching Obi-Wan ... and then had removed it similarly, without explanation. Something that he had heard in his own voice when he had last spoken, acknowledging Qui-Gon's control ... surrendering his own will ....

Obi-Wan shivered, and not from the unaccustomed chill of air on his skin. He felt ... open, somehow. More vulnerable than mere nudity made him. He felt that somehow, when the collar had clicked quietly on his throat, he had ceased to be Jedi ... but as he formed the thought he realized that it was incorrect. Perhaps he felt that his Master had ceased to be Jedi -- no, not that either. He was what he had always been and always would be, and Qui-Gon had not changed either. Not precisely. What he felt was the shifting of their relationship, the setting aside of the formality of Master and padawan, baring something that was inherent in what he and Qui-Gon were together. Something that had always been present, but effaced.

A pretense had been shed, along with his clothing. An acknowledgment had been added, along with his collar. And Obi-Wan understood, with a low, quick intake of breath, that he had always striven to be fully pleasing to Qui-Gon, that Qui-Gon had always subtly commanded him ... that he had always been a willing slave to Qui-Gon's kindly but stern Master.

And something else had been revealed, too, by the roles they had not assumed but acknowledged -- something that Obi-Wan could only blame on the Riadan mindset into which he must sink: the demand for sexual expression as a part of the bond between slave and Master. The Riadan cultural roles they adopted were forcing this aspect on him, and on Qui-Gon as well. That was what had changed Obi-Wan's stride, made his hips flow like liquid, made his body tingle with an awareness of every sensation from the cool metal of the collar, to the dampness of sweat starting inside the broad leather cuffs, to the smooth flow of air around his body, to the faint hint of Qui-Gon's natural scent carried back and swirling around him.

Obi-Wan found himself reminded of a test he had passed only a year ago in his training. He had been taken to the lowest levels of the Jedi temple, far below Coruscant's surface. There he had been told to enter a dank, forbidding cave. Asking what awaited him inside, he was given the ritual response "Only what you take with you." He'd faced his fears and finally triumphed over them in that cave, after many long days and repeated tries. Now he had the same sensation of prickling nerves, and understood that something waited for him here, something he had brought with him into this situation, something that would have to be acknowledged, come to terms with, and embraced in order to be overcome.

His long-suppressed feelings for Qui-Gon. They were what he brought with him into this role, Obi-Wan realized. He felt a surge of pride and relief as he began to understand the test he faced. One step of the process was complete. Now he must come to terms with what he had brought into this situation, allow himself to experience it. He felt a tightness in his body dissolve, one he had carried so long it had become second nature to him, realized only when it was released -- the necessity to keep hidden his long-unspoken desire for his Master. He welcomed the freedom to work through it now, under cover of their roles, without fear of discovery and rejection.

With his acceptance of himself and his role, he felt the paradigm shift within him. Obi-Wan Kenobi was Qui-Gon Jinn's slave.

The short journey was over after another few steps. They entered a common area of the ship, its tiered floor filled with seating laid out in a circular pattern. Men sat upon cushions on a series of rings ranged about an open area. Obi-Wan blinked -- there were dozens of women attending the men carefully, all collared as he was, most not as severely bound as he. All were either nude or only barely clad in transparent silks, and all were quite possibly the most lascivious beings he had ever seen. Slaves -- pleasure slaves, carefully trained in all the arts of lovemaking.

Obi-Wan gulped, not quite sure where to look first, the mass of voluptuous female flesh at once tantalizing and embarrassing him. He decided to set that aside for the moment, focusing on the Masters instead. The men all seemed quite crude compared to Qui-Gon, none of them so tall nor so sturdy as his Master. They treated the slave women with a casual regard that spoke of long familiarity. The women, for their part, scurried about, serving wine and meat and being lavishly fondled. There were two female Masters as well, and a small handful of male serving slaves attired much like himself attended them. He noticed no other pairings of male Master and slave, and he bit his lip a little nervously, hoping there was no cultural gender taboo that would forbid his being Qui-Gon's favored attendant.

Qui-Gon moved toward an unoccupied position, the leash catching Obi-Wan off-guard and jerking him forward. Qui-Gon did not look back. Neither did he slow, and Obi-Wan stumbled to catch up. A few rude snickers greeted his clumsiness. Obi-Wan glanced about clandestinely, searching for more male slaves. There were a few, clad in rags, doing heavy work such as carrying large wine-casks, but none were with ....

"You keep a male pleasure slave?" A rough laugh came from behind them, and Obi-Wan felt Qui-Gon step to one side. He followed hastily. "Those are rarely seen in company of a strong man such as yourself. Free women use tamed male slaves, but ...." The man shook his head. "Do you not find women superior?"

Qui-Gon shrugged eloquently. "A slave girl has her attractions," he admitted. "But it is more of a challenge to master a man. And the reward ...." Qui-Gon extended a broad palm and slid it smoothly from the base of Obi-Wan's spine to the nape of his neck, bending his head forward, his long fingers twining into Obi-Wan's short hair roughly. "The reward is worth it." His deep voice grew rough, predatory.

Obi-Wan jerked involuntarily with surprise at the words, touch, and tone, and Qui-Gon's fist tightened in his hair, shaking him. I'll just bet it would be, Obi-Wan thought dizzily, his scalp tingling under the pressure of Qui-Gon's long, blunt fingers, and then he experienced a cascade of relief that his Master was not making the effort to reach his mind through those hard fingertips. He had to remind himself that Qui-Gon was acting, but it was increasingly difficult.

Qui-Gon watched the man examine Obi-Wan, noted the narrowing of his brows at the unmarred perfection of his padawan's thigh. "He is a new slave, not yet branded. I keep him under strict discipline, though."

Branded!?

This time Obi-Wan jerked harder, trying for a moment to escape the fist in his hair, needing to look at Qui-Gon for reassurance, but unable to escape the firm hold. Qui-Gon had chosen a place for them to sit, and his Master seated himself without releasing Obi-Wan. Qui-Gon's strong muscles tightened, and Obi-Wan quickly found his cheek pressed to the floor, his body prostrate.

"You are not being fully pleasing." Qui-Gon's voice was harsh and dangerous, warning, and Obi-Wan felt himself acquiesce immediately before that tone of threat. His bones felt like jelly. Qui-Gon's hand rose from him, but Obi-Wan did not dare to stir from where he had been put. It occurred to him for the first time that Qui-Gon, not unlike Obi-Wan himself, might encounter difficulty in maintaining the boundaries between role and reality.

"Kneel," Qui-Gon barked sharply, and Obi-Wan jerked himself upright. The stranger was still standing over him, looking down at him speculatively. "A well-endowed specimen," the man pronounced him grudgingly. "Strong." Abruptly he kicked Obi-Wan's knees apart. "Kneel like the woman you might as well be, boy! And do not look a free man in the face!"

"He will be punished," Qui-Gon intervened smoothly. "I shall see to it." Inwardly he groaned. A rule that had not been part of their information. What if Obi-Wan broke another such rule, and Qui-Gon were not able to intervene?

The Riadan man was moving off, distracted by a serving slave, and Qui-Gon released a long, slow sigh of relief. This was quickly becoming too dangerous to suit him. Even as the thought formed, another Riadan approached Qui-Gon. "Your slave. Is he free for use?"

"I beg your pardon?" Qui-Gon had a sinking feeling.

"Strong male pleasure slaves are uncommon, and he is a pretty one," the man laughed. "Will you permit him to be used?"

"Jor!" A sharp voice scolded, approaching quickly. "These are our guests from the Republic. They aren't yet fully familiar with Riadan customs." Qui-Gon immediately recognized Corm. He winced as he realized how right the high priest was and he spared a mental curse for the inadequate information they'd been given -- a lack that Corm was at least partly responsible for.

Qui-Gon turned his eyes on Obi-Wan, setting his expression in what he hoped was an appropriate one for a Master judging his property. Obi-Wan was sitting back on his heels, his eyes fastened to the tile floor, his knees apart where the first Riadan had set them. "He has not been fully pleasing, and is under discipline," Qui-Gon volunteered to Corm.

"Ah, you are depriving him until he begs." The Riadan priest shooed Jor away, and seated himself as Qui-Gon frowned at his padawan. "That is well. I spoke with Chancellor Valorum before leaving radio range of Coruscant. He endorsed you personally as his diplomatic envoy." Corm smiled at Qui-Gon, who nodded acknowledgment pleasantly, once again filing away the evidence of Corm's unusual power.

Sensing Qui-Gon's divided inattention, Corm spared another glance at Obi-Wan. "A wise choice of discipline," he digressed. "And an impressive piece of slave flesh. A pretty one. And spirited." Qui-Gon realized that Obi-Wan had lifted his eyes and was glaring at the high priest in a decidedly non-meek fashion.

"Obi-Wan!" Qui-Gon snapped, and his apprentice's eyes jerked to his, half abashed and half sullen. Qui-Gon reminded himself that the display of temper was an act.

Corm observed the interplay with apparent amusement. "He has a strong face, a manly face. Most boys who are used as pleasure slaves by men are ... less masculine. Your will must be strong, to tame such a man." His tone was amiable, almost instructive, and his sharp eyes glanced shrewdly between Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon.

Obi-Wan's eyes never wavered from Qui-Gon, even as his Master's hand rose. The crack of Qui-Gon's backhand on his cheek was like a thunderclap, and he dropped swiftly, the motion neatly telegraphed from the well-drawn punch. Qui-Gon made a good show of following through, and Corm slapped his knees with approval. Qui-Gon sighed. Obi-Wan had barely had time to react; he took pity on his apprentice and removed the wrist restraints when Obi-Wan struggled back to his knees, his eyes now properly centered on the floor.

Obi-Wan rose, palm covering his cheek, rubbing as though to take the sting away. Then, to Qui-Gon's surprise, relief, and partial amazement, Obi-Wan moved to his side and nestled the slapped cheek against his ribs, fawning.

Qui-Gon remembered, a little belatedly, that he was supposed to take such conduct for granted, and he laid his palm on Obi-Wan's sleek side, returning his attention to Corm. "He is young, and though we have been together for years, I have only recently collared him," Qui-Gon explained. "He is new to his slavery, but he will learn it in time." He made the comment offhand.

Obi-Wan needed to hide the fact that his cheek was not red and swelling, so he slid his arm around Qui-Gon's waist and buried his face in his Master's robe. It smelled good, the scent of Qui-Gon that had teased him earlier now filling his nostrils. He breathed deeply, snuggling in and hardly realizing he had done so until Qui-Gon's warm palm found a place on his side. He could feel his Master's pulse beat in that palm, a little too quick. Well, for that matter, Obi-Wan's own pulse was also rapid. He peeked a bit, looking around the room, taking a lesson from the slaves assembled. Hiding a grin, Obi-Wan squirmed a bit lasciviously against Qui-Gon, curling his body around his Master like a cat.

Settled, he began to listen to the conversation, still nuzzling his face into Qui-Gon's ribs periodically. This role restrained him, but it granted certain freedoms as well, and Qui-Gon could hardly blame him for getting into the part, particularly since his Master was doing as much himself.

"When Qal intercepted the first communications on his radio apparatus, King Ahar decided it would be well to enter into a trade agreement with the Republic," Corm was saying. "We have much to offer. Precious metals and crystals, agricultural products, fine spices. Our artisans and craftsmen are highly skilled, as well."

"And in return, you would like technology?" Qui-Gon guessed.

Corm was silent for a moment, and his voice was disappointed when he continued. "We... choose to maintain our current level of technological development," he hedged at last. "Swords are more civilized than energy weapons, we believe. If you kill a man with a sword, you must mean to do it." Obi-Wan's curiosity was piqued, and he wished Qui-Gon's database of information had included more about such an unusual cultural belief. No wonder they'd been forced to leave their lightsabers hidden.

"We can offer art, culture, medicines, rare metals and alloys." Qui-Gon tried alternatives, and Corm nodded, seeming more satisfied this time.

"And it appears our populations may be compatible as well," the man commented cheerfully, gesturing at Obi-Wan. "If his body is any indication of what is typical of the Republic's citizens."

"There are a variety of humanoid species, and many are capable of interbreeding," Qui-Gon explained, noting how Corm's ears seemed to perk at this information. The Jedi Master slid his hand over Obi-Wan's flank, pretending to be distracted to gain time, until a moment later he realized he actually was distracted, listening to Obi-Wan groan softly at the touch and feeling his apprentice arch into his palm. Caressing him had obviously been a bad idea.

It took effort not to yank his hand away as though he'd been burned. It also took effort to make himself stop the gentle motion of his palm across his padawan's smooth skin.

Qui-Gon took a deep breath, stilling his hand by brute force of will and trying to ignore Obi-Wan's leg, which slid over the pillow, whispering against the silk, to press against Qui-Gon. This was getting out of hand, in more ways than one. Qui-Gon would have to increase his self-discipline.

"Is it possible that your humanoids and Riadans could interbreed successfully, produce offspring?" Corm speculated, his tone idle, but Qui-Gon caught a quick gleam as his eyes flashed toward the only partly-distracted Jedi Master.

"It could be." Qui-Gon had the means to rapidly determine if it were, but he decided not to reveal this to Corm. He reached and accepted a cup of wine from a passing servant girl. Corm was beginning to give him a decidedly uncomfortable feeling.

Qui-Gon sipped his wine, listening to the Riadan priest begin to prattle casually about a variety of irrelevant topics, including the expertise of the dancers, which girls might provide his guest the best pleasure, and what cultural attractions Qui-Gon might choose to visit on Ria. After a time of making appropriate responses, Qui-Gon grew tired and the cups of wine he had drunk began to tell on him, particularly since no meal had yet been served.

"I believe my slave and I shall retire," he commented.

"But you have not yet been feasted. And there is to be dancing," Corm objected jovially.

"I had thought I might discipline my slave," Qui-Gon confided, seizing on what he thought might make his best excuse for a hasty parting.

Surprisingly, Corm gave him a broad grin and a conspiratorial wink. "But that is no reason to leave!" Corm gestured expansively. "After the dancing, we shall all 'discipline' the slaves, here, as we are!" Corm smirked, a little too toothily for Qui-Gon's satisfaction.

"Our customs are rather different," Qui-Gon committed dryly, feeling Obi-Wan go tense where his padawan lay curled around him.

"But he is only a slave and a slut, he is not deserving of privacy or modesty," Corm laughed. "Look at him press against you. He is slave-hot and ready for you to use in worship of the bounty of nature, as the gods decree. If you are concerned that it is not proper for a man to use a male pleasure slave publicly, I assure you that it will occasion little comment. Or you may use one of my own girls."

Qui-Gon automatically reached to soothe Obi-Wan's fears, and then realized that Corm had read the gesture as a caress, interpreting it to mean that Qui-Gon had relented. "There are those who would like to see him perform in the furs," Corm confided. His eyes glittered as he surveyed Obi-Wan.

"His use is mine!" Qui-Gon snapped, his big hand curling about Obi-Wan's upper arm. Obi-Wan felt his heart stop and wondered distantly if it would resume beating. Qui-Gon's tone held definite elements of jealousy, and his hand was fierce, protective .... Obi-Wan was startled and aroused to sense possessive energy, an actual sense of ownership, radiating from his Master. Of course he expected that Qui-Gon would not permit him to be taken. But the emotions in that voice and in Qui-Gon's aura ... he could not help responding to them.

Obi-Wan drew himself to his knees, draping himself against his Master's back and letting his arm fall over Qui-Gon's left shoulder. His spine felt fluid, his body warm, and he bent to Qui-Gon's neck, smoothing the long silver-touched hair aside and trailing his lips softly against the moist skin beneath. Qui-Gon caught his dangling arm, pressing it against his chest. Obi-Wan lifted his face, dared to give Corm a glare.

He knew they were the perfect picture of Master and slave.

He also knew that he could, later, pretend to Qui-Gon that this had only been an act, designed carefully to convince Corm of their charade. But for now, Qui-Gon's throat was under his lips, and his body was pressed against his Master's, and Obi-Wan lost himself in the moment as Qui-Gon so frequently admonished that he needed to do. Obi-Wan pushed his pelvis rhythmically against Qui-Gon's back, biting delicately at his Master's earlobe, trailing his hand across Qui-Gon's belly as low as he could reach.

Qui-Gon's eyelids fell closed and he sighed, a hollow, bone-deep exhalation that was as ragged as his nerves. In a moment, he was going to forget that Obi-Wan was pretending; he was going to haul his padawan over his shoulder by that arm whose hand was apparently struggling to reach his penis, and he was going to ravish Obi-Wan right here and now -- no doubt to Corm's great delight.

The moment was broken as a final party of Riadans entered the room and moved to sit in the empty space at Qui-Gon's side. The Jedi Master nodded at Qal, recognizing him formally, and received a polite nod in turn. Qal ignored Corm, seating himself on a broad cushion. Two slave girls knelt gracefully at his side, but Qal gently brushed one back, focusing on Obi-Wan.

"Exquisite, Ambassador Jinn!" Qal's eyes were warm for the first time as they surveyed the padawan. "I applaud your taste."

Qui-Gon nodded politely, accepting the compliment, and felt Obi-Wan raise his head.

Qal paled and swallowed convulsively, his hands closing in his lap. His tongue dampened his lower lip, but he seemed unable to rip his gaze away from what he saw before him.

"Obi-Wan!" Qui-Gon warned, knowing that his headstrong padawan had met Qal's eyes. The young man turned his face into his Master's neck, breaking the spell, and Qal reached for wine, gulping gratefully. Qui-Gon could sympathize. He too knew the devastating effect of his Obi-Wan's beauty and the spell of his clear eyes.

At last the feast was served.

Qui-Gon decided that it would be best to put Obi-Wan to work. He hoped that he would thereby cut down on the erotic distraction of having his padawan pressed against him. So far he had been able to accomplish a little productive diplomatic interaction with Corm, and he hoped to achieve more.

He was at least partly right. Having Obi-Wan serve him dinner did cut down on the direct physical stimulus. However, Corm was involved with enjoying his meal and the girls who served it to him, so Qui-Gon no longer had the outlet of diplomatic chat to distract him from watching Obi-Wan. Even Qal was enjoying being fed by two of his own slaves and being served wine by a third. Despite his repeated glances at Obi-Wan, he did not seem disposed to talk of business during the meal.

Qui-Gon noticed that Obi-Wan was thoughtfully watching the slave girls, particularly those adjacent to him and his Master, and his heart skipped a beat and then quickened as he recalled that Obi-Wan had always been a quick study.

The meal was served on platters. Obi-Wan accepted Qui-Gon's portion from a beautiful slave with long dark hair, her hips wrapped in a narrow band of blue gauzy fabric. Obi-Wan lowered the tray gently to the low table that lay before his Master's pillows. A pitcher of wine was also provided, and a goblet.

Mimicking the girls, Obi-Wan carefully poured the wine. Then he lifted the vessel with the palms of both hands and raised it as though to drink. Instead of drinking, though, he tilted his head, eyes closing and gently, reverently, sensually, pressed the rim of the goblet first against the slightly rippled plane of his belly and then raised it to brush his lips against the roundness of the cup. Then, bowing his head, he extended the wine toward his Master with both hands. "Wine, Master?" Obi-Wan breathed, his intonation as honeyed as though he were offering his body, and not the sweet Riadan wine.

Qui-Gon managed, somehow, to accept the goblet and drink without spilling it. He gulped a little too thirstily, though he knew the wine was potent the moment its aroma arrived at his nostrils.

Obi-Wan's lips were almost curved, a sort of secret smile, and as he turned away his eyes were meekly downcast. Qui-Gon struggled not to look too openly at his padawan's lithe form. The clean, smooth lines of Obi-Wan's body were, in their own way, equally as beautiful as the curves of the slave girls, he noted distantly. No, more beautiful, for they belonged to someone he knew and loved.

Obi-Wan's back bowed as he leaned over the tray, and the muscles in his shoulders slid smoothly against one another as he set aside the wine pitcher. Qui-Gon was frozen, only able to watch Obi-Wan, and he knew he was staring at his apprentice like a drunken lecher ogling a tavern barmaid.

But Obi-Wan was not shrinking from Qui-Gon's regard, his entire attention seemingly fixed on preparing his Master's meal. He selected a slice of ripe fruit, and instead of proffering it on the eating utensil that had been provided, lifted it to Qui-Gon's mouth with his fingers.

Qui-Gon accepted it, thinking it better not to quibble. The fruit was luscious, sweet and spicy. He could not help but notice that its thick, sweet juice had trailed its way over Obi-Wan's fingers.

Obi-Wan proffered a second slice, and Qui-Gon reached to take it with his own hand, but Obi-Wan's hands danced away, and Qui-Gon sighed again, letting his hand drop into his lap.

When the third slice came, Qui-Gon was ready. His hand snapped out and caught Obi-Wan's wrist, holding the morsel steady. Letting his eyes meet Obi-Wan's, Qui-Gon slowly leaned forward and drew the fruit slice into his mouth ... along with Obi-Wan's sticky, sugared fingers.

If Obi-Wan were going to play this to the hilt, then by the Force, so would he.

Qui-Gon took his time, sucking Obi-Wan's fingers luxuriously and then licking them, cleaning them of every trace of fruit juice. Obi-Wan's eyes, their blue darkening with shock, remained locked to his. At last Qui-Gon released him.

Obi-Wan drew his hand back, and this time he got down to business, his bluff called by Qui-Gon's sensual action. He meekly surrendered the eating skewer to his Master and subsided, sinking back on his heels, pouring wine and serving more fruit and meat when told.

Qui-Gon asked for wine rather more frequently than was strictly wise, unable to get either the vision or the taste of Obi-Wan out of his mind or his peripheral vision. He finally forced himself to focus on Obi-Wan's padawan braid, dangling against the young man's bare chest. That served to keep him sober enough.

For his part, Obi-Wan took care to watch the girls serving around them. By watching, he could better learn how to perform his duties, and besides, the sight of so much lush female flesh helped him keep his mind off his Master -- and gave him an excuse for arousal when he couldn't. Normally, he would have been appalled at the degradation these rituals represented, but at the moment he found himself incapable of objecting. Obi-Wan had been trained not to reject cultural rituals without giving them due respect, and serving his Master in this capacity stirred new and disturbing sensations in him that were a far cry from the unpleasant reactions he would have expected a slave to experience.

His own intuitions were teaching him now that just perhaps this was one custom that was at least partly misunderstood.

Finally Qui-Gon was finished, and Obi-Wan gathered up the remains, following a few of the servers and depositing the tray in the kitchen, even helping the male slaves to move the heavier tables, to clear the floor for dancing. When he finished and turned his attention to Qui-Gon, what he saw made him fairly bristle. Three of Prince Qal's most beautiful female slaves had draped themselves over his Master, and were fondling Qui-Gon quite thoroughly. Meanwhile, the Jedi looked like the Hutt that devoured the womp rat, smugly enjoying the attention.

Obi-Wan stalked back toward his Master, trying to decide what to do. He couldn't let Qui-Gon sense the truth of his jealousy. Nor could he use the Force to shove the slave girls aside, though he was tempted to do so.

But wiser counsel prevailed. As a slave himself, he was bound to ignore -- or even to abet -- that which brought his Master pleasure. And certainly the girls seemed to be doing so. Obi-Wan was running out of distance as he walked, for the room was fairly small. He had almost arrived at Qui-Gon when his Master looked up.

"Ah, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon spoke casually. "I have no further use for you this evening. Return to our quarters and await me in our bed."

For a moment, Obi-Wan stood blinking, thinking his Master meant more than he said, teetering on the edge of believing he was truly expected to provide service there as well...

...then reality set in, and he understood Qui-Gon was using this as a convenient escape from the embarrassment of having to endure his padawan's overplayed attentions ... or just an excuse to be free of Obi-Wan so that he could enjoy the attention of Qal's girls. His comment had merely been a veiled instruction to rest.

"Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon's voice rumbled, carrying a threat. "Go." His hand lifted, and Obi-Wan groaned inwardly as the Force washed over him, just enough to get him moving. Obi-Wan trotted obediently back to his Master's chamber for the night.

*****

Qui-Gon indeed heaved a sigh of relief, but in ridding himself of one problem, he had obtained three others. Pushing one of the girls aside gently but firmly, he reached for another goblet of wine. He preferred that beautiful women give him attention because they found him attractive, not because they were required to do so.

Corm was watching him again very alertly, and Qui-Gon pretended he hadn't noticed. However, the pressure to observe cultural conventions was extreme, and he eventually surrendered to it.

He cuddled one girl close, letting her kiss him. Her skill was exquisite; Qui-Gon had never been kissed so, and certainly he had never held a trained pleasure slave. He almost groaned to find himself trembling with readiness when she finally drew away.

But it was empty readiness. There was tension and desire, but his heart was untouched. Obi-Wan could accomplish more with a single glance .... Qui-Gon resolutely turned his thoughts away from the unbidden image of his padawan awaiting him, nude, in bed. Well, since he was apparently expected to participate in a mass orgy, he could comfort himself for now with the knowledge that he wouldn't have to force himself on his own padawan, since Obi-Wan was safely away and there were lovely, willing girls available and happy to serve.

*****

It was quite late when Qui-Gon, drunker than he'd been since the night he'd passed his Knighthood trials, finally staggered toward the quarters he shared with Obi-Wan. He shuffled into their quarters, scrubbing a hand through his hair wearily. His mouth already tasted like a troupe of traveling Gungans had spent a week encamped inside, and the girls had tormented him with lust all evening, until he'd become convinced of the sincerity of their desire and the inevitability of the ritual. He'd finally permitted himself to choose a slave girl and lie with her, participating uneasily in the communal orgy.

He turned, his hand reaching for the switch to illuminate the room, and froze. Obi-Wan lay at the foot of the big bed, curled into a fetal position, still entirely nude except for the bonds he wore. Qui-Gon blinked against the dimness, bringing up the illumination quickly so that he could see what had happened to his apprentice. Apparently, Obi-Wan had met with someone on his way back to his Master's rooms. Even using the Force, it would have been difficult for him to array himself with the bindings that had been put on him.

The harness had been replaced on his padawan and Obi-Wan's hands had been fastened to the sides of his thighs, palm-outward. The ring on his collar had been looped with rough vegetable fiber and lashed to the harness between his thighs, holding his head down almost on his knees. He had been gagged, as well, fine silk cutting into the corners of his mouth.

He was chained to a ring set in the bottom of Qui-Gon's bed, not even granted a pillow, his body lying on the bare deckplates. He was sleeping, though unquietly, his padawan braid fallen across his face.

Qui-Gon leaped forward, at Obi-Wan's side in an instant, his hand catching Obi-Wan's shoulder. "Padawan!" He could hear the slur in his own voice. Obi-Wan tried to lift his head and failed, blinking owlishly in the light. His hands closed and opened again, nearly the only motion he was capable of performing. Qui-Gon hastily untied the silken gag and threw the thing on the floor with a muttered oath.

"Nobody..." Qui-Gon hesitated. "Nobody hurt you?"

"No." Obi-Wan's voice was slurred, from sleep as much as the bruising gag. "A guard escorted me back to your quarters and prepared me to await you." He could have freed himself with the Force, but he had chosen not to in case the guard had decided to return to the room and check on him.

Qui-Gon fumbled hastily with hands made clumsy by alcohol, releasing Obi-Wan's head from the harness, freeing his wrists, unchaining him from the ring, stripping the harness from him. Obi-Wan stretched painfully, and Qui-Gon hastily unfastened the remainder of the restraints, tossing them aside. "I shall be more careful in the future to watch over you, padawan," Qui-Gon promised regretfully, watching Obi-Wan rubbing his wrists to encourage circulation. He reached a hand to Obi-Wan, and Obi-Wan automatically caught it, letting himself be lifted upright.

Obi-Wan blinked. A scent that was most definitely not his Master's clung to Qui-Gon's hand, a waft of perfume and muskier odors. Obi-Wan dropped his Master's hand instantly, staggering a little against the bed as his abused muscles protested. Qui-Gon had sent him away, and taken a slave girl in his stead. His eyes traveled upward, finding that Qui-Gon's clothing was rumpled and his face and other visible skin thoroughly stained with rouge. To another Jedi, Qui-Gon should have presented a most entertaining picture.

To Obi-Wan, it was a crushing, if half-expected, disappointment. It sent a spike of furious jealousy through him that he could not ignore. "Shall I fetch a basin for you to wash your face, Master?" He could hear the absence of politeness in his own voice, but Qui-Gon was either too drunk to notice or merely chose to ignore it. Absently the Jedi Master scrubbed his sleeve across his mouth, staining it and examining the stain with a distracted expression. He looked positively satiated. Obi-Wan could feel his teeth grinding, so he stalked into the bathroom.

"This stain will have to be removed," Qui-Gon mused when Obi-Wan returned with the basin.

"Do it yourself," Obi-Wan snapped. "You put it there."

"So I did." Qui-Gon seemed to find that vastly amusing in spite of Obi-Wan's anger, and he attempted to take the bowl, almost sluicing its contents all over the bed. "But you will remove it, padawan."

"Sit down, please," Obi-Wan growled from between clenched teeth, retrieving the bowl and enforcing his command with a sturdy Force-push. He didn't want to smell that feminine stink all night and remember that it meant he had been rejected. He began scrubbing at Qui-Gon's face angrily with the damp towel he had brought. He couldn't get all the smell off; that would require an all-over wash. Obi-Wan wondered if he would have the patience or stamina to try to get the big drunken oaf undressed and into the shower. Most likely not without getting inside it with him. Sighing, he scrubbed at the worst surfaces, the slave makeup quickly destroying the towel and giving a red tint to the soapy water.

"Carefully, there!" Qui-Gon's hand caught his wrist, moderating Obi-Wan's movements with effortless ease. The young man was left with no choice but comply. In a few moments he gave up and sullenly tossed the stained rag into the basin.

"You haven't cleaned my robe." Qui-Gon's hands were at the fastening of his belt and he was having some trouble with it; apparently the idea of a shower had occurred to him as well, even though Obi-Wan had just gone to the trouble of washing his face separately. "Have it done by the time I get out." He gave Obi-Wan a slightly fuzzy but stern look from under lowered brows, weaving his way into the 'fresher cubicle.

Obi-Wan snatched up the robe, fuming, chafing against the casual menial commands. He stood there quivering with anger, hands fisted in the cloak for a long moment, and then seated himself on the edge of the bed, his anger dissipating, leaving misery in its wake.

It took only a slight application of water and a brush to clean the sturdy fabric. Blinking back stinging tears, Obi-Wan draped it over the table to dry. He was just finishing when Qui-Gon emerged from the shower, wearing a towel and nothing else.

"Obi-Wan, are you well?" Qui-Gon's eyes were muzzy; he barely seemed able to stand, but he laid his hand on his padawan's shoulder. Obi-Wan shrugged it off angrily, jerking away, refusing to look at the huge, rangy body of his Master, refusing to endure the desire it would kindle in him even though he was annoyed.

"With your leave, I'm going to bed," Obi-Wan stated flatly. He turned his back firmly to Qui-Gon and began plumping his pillow, then flung it against the wall at the innermost edge of the mattress.

There seemed little else to say, and Qui-Gon abruptly realized that once again, there was only one bed in the quarters they had been assigned-- apparently slaves were not usually granted sleeping amenities, but he and Obi-Wan would manage adequately. He lumbered over and got out his padawan's sleeping tunic, draping it over Obi-Wan's shoulders. He rummaged a bit in the luggage for his apprentice's sleeping trousers, but when he did not find them immediately, he gave up. Qui-Gon pulled out a pair of sleeping trousers for himself instead and began the hazardous process of attempting to balance well enough to step into them and pull them up. One layer of cloth would surely be enough to separate them.

Obi-Wan pulled his tunic closed automatically, his expression grudging. He felt strangely uncomfortable with the clothing settled on his body. It was as though in resuming even this part of his identity, he lost a part of the freedom that he had obtained through the pretense of slavery. He felt as though the tensions he had released were flowing back into him, and he regretted it. On top of his dismay at Qui-Gon's womanizing, the additional unhappiness was almost too much to be borne. A flicker in the Living Force drew him from his bout of self-pity.

"Surveillance," Obi-Wan suddenly commented in Huttese, the word sounding like a cough.

Qui-Gon flinched. In his eagerness to free and cover Obi-Wan, he hadn't bothered to remember to check for that -- and the alcohol probably wasn't making his decisions any smarter, either. This whole scenario made him highly uncomfortable, he had to admit. Things were far worse than he'd been led to believe at the briefing.

Obi-Wan tilted his head back, seeking reaction to his announcement in Qui-Gon's eyes, the tunic falling open, revealing the flat planes of his belly.

Qui-Gon knew he wasn't up to the mental gymnastics of a veiled conversation now. Sighing, he let his silence and a resigned nod change the subject. He gestured Obi-Wan onto the narrow sleeping couch and let himself fall into it next to his padawan. "I am too weary to discipline you as you deserve, boy," he grumbled.

"Yes, Master." Obi-Wan hesitated for a moment, on the verge of saying more, but then settled into the bedding, his back to Qui-Gon's, keeping as much distance between himself and the older man as the narrow bed permitted.

Soon, the two were asleep.

*****

In the morning, Obi-Wan wakened, startled, hearing the door of their chamber open. A young slave boy wearing fairly conservative garb of white slipped in, deposited breakfast, and bowed his way out the door. Qui-Gon also stirred at the intrusion and woke, scrubbing sleep from his eyes. Obi-Wan scrambled out of bed, and Qui-Gon groaned, covering his eyes with his hand. His padawan still wore only the short tunic, which did not quite cover his hips when he bent. Or other things.

Accepting this mission had been a dreadful mistake, on a number of levels, most of which Obi-Wan was apparently blissfully indifferent to. Qui-Gon groaned again and buried his head under a pillow. Scattered memories grazed at his consciousness, not least among them the angry fire in Obi-Wan's eyes at the conclusion of the previous night's escapades. No wonder Obi-Wan had been angry with him ... he'd been a drunken fool, and a domineering one, at that. But his padawan's wrath seemed subdued in the light of day, though there was a pall of silence still gathered about him.

Obi-Wan knew his duty and was not slow to perform it. He returned to Qui-Gon with breakfast and fed his Master solicitously. Qui-Gon felt too bad to do much about it; in spite of his attempts to speed his metabolism, the Riadan wine packed a powerful punch, and his head was throbbing. Suddenly he realized that Obi-Wan's eyes were twinkling, his normal humor returning; his padawan was making him lean forward a little bit more to capture each bite, until his neck was extended to its full reach.

Qui-Gon sank back against the pillows, his own humor rising, and refused to reach for the next bite. Obi-Wan brought it to him anyway, spooning up some of the sweet porridge laced with dried fruit and delivering it to Qui-Gon's mouth dexterously. Qui-Gon was keenly aware of his padawan's collar and his eyes could not avoid Obi-Wan's barely-concealed body, glimpses of which were randomly visible when the cloth fell open as Obi-Wan moved.

Qui-Gon suddenly found that he could not taste the food he was eating. Whatever magnetism Obi-Wan had managed to muster the previous evening was now doubled. His padawan's eyes were heavy with sleep, his hair tousled, his posture indolent. The young man's motions were languid, and he was careless of his near-nudity. The faintest rosy marks remained at his wrists, reminders of the restraints he had worn. Qui-Gon's lust swelled at the memory of Obi-Wan lying bound, awaiting him at the foot of his bed. A slave, awaiting his pleasure, who had no choice but to accept that his Master had gone elsewhere to sate his needs.

No. His padawan, whom he was sworn to teach and protect. Qui-Gon blinked at his own stray thoughts with surprise. He was tired, that was it. Qui-Gon had not slept well, particularly after Obi-Wan had slipped into dreams. His padawan had rolled and snuggled close to his back without realizing. Obi-Wan's silky warmth had overcome the relaxing effects of the wine Qui-Gon had drunk -- Qui-Gon's body had responded helplessly when his tunic had fallen open, leaving his chest pressed against the Jedi Master's bare back. Qui-Gon had lain awake for most of the night, struggling against his renewed desires, trying to find the detachment for proper meditation.

Obi-Wan slept like a baby after Qui-Gon removed his restraints. His sleep left him refreshed and optimistic. The day before, he'd had little time to ponder Qui-Gon's reactions, absorbed in reacting to situations himself. But today ....

Today anything seemed possible, and at the very least, Obi-Wan would be able to enjoy the freedom he had found -- the freedom this charade of slavery gave him to express the sexual feelings he had for Qui-Gon without fear of censure. Well, relatively little fear -- he had learned rejection the previous night, and he still feared it. He must keep in mind that it was all an act on Qui-Gon's part, and that he was supposed to be acting, too. He must fulfill the demands of their mission. He had to keep in mind that his Master would not touch him, and keep his jealousy in rein. Or ... or he could try to make himself so tantalizing that his Master could not resist. The extra element of genuine sensuality between them could only enhance the plausibility of the facade they were creating.

Obi-Wan swallowed thickly, feeling the collar heavy at his throat. His hands went to it instinctively, fingertips tracing the Riadan letters for Qui-Gon's name. He had already imitated the other slaves outwardly, but he could feel an understanding and sympathy for their condition settling into his bones, and from there it was working outward to permeate his thoughts and actions. Slaves must be accustomed to living with fear of the fickleness of their Masters, and they must also work to entice by being fully pleasing, by being the lascivious, sensual, erotic creatures they were. By being ... owned, and possessed in every way. Every way.

Obi-Wan looked away from his Master's recumbent form, heat settling into his loins. He could do as the shamelessly wanton slave girls he had seen did. He could make it clear to his Master that Obi-Wan was indeed his, that Obi-Wan might be used as Qui-Gon pleased not only for mundane tasks, but also for .... Qui-Gon stirred, and Obi-Wan knew that the time for thinking was finished. Now he must feel, and live in the moment. He must follow the Living Force, let the incredible sexual energy and love that pulsed within him speak, at last, to Qui-Gon Jinn.

Obi-Wan set the breakfast tray aside and stretched like a cat, deliberately in Qui-Gon's full view, aware that the shifting lines of his open tunic exposed him beautifully. There were still a few kinks in his back from the guard's cruel restraints, but they faded slowly as he moved his body, flexing and tensing each muscle. Then, movements relaxed and indolent, he retrieved Qui-Gon's clothing and laid it out for his Master, who still lounged in bed, his arm now flung over his eyes, his breathing visibly shallower than it had been.

Qui-Gon seemed determined to try to ignore him, so Obi-Wan bustled about, doing the chores he imagined a Riadan slave would customarily do in his Master's chamber. When he finished, he decided to bathe. Quietly Obi-Wan shucked off the tunic he wore and stepped into the 'fresher. Inside, he shaved carefully, neglecting to close the door fully. Then he stepped into the stall and enjoyed a long water shower, pleased that the transport was an elite-class that provided such rare luxuries - it was a special diplomatic courtesy extended because one of the Ambassadors was the Riadan monarch himself. When he was clean he stepped out into the main room, rebraiding and tying the padawan braid and tossing it over his shoulder.

Sure enough, Qui-Gon was peeking, the faint glimmer of eyes just visible beneath his lashes, and Obi-Wan was pleased that he had not worn the towel he had brought out to dry himself with.

So much for morning meditation.

Qui-Gon lay silently. Again Obi-Wan did not permit himself to think. Instead, he turned slightly, till he was cleanly visible in profile, drying himself thoroughly and slowly. There was no visible reaction. Growing impatient, Obi-Wan decided to take more aggressive steps toward getting Qui-Gon out of bed so that they could begin their day, a day Obi-Wan devoutly hoped would end far differently than the previous one. Finishing, he arched and sighed, and then moved back to the bed. Lifting the covers, he slid himself over Qui-Gon to his own place. As his body thoroughly brushed against his Master's, he uttered an exaggerated sigh and closed his eyes, moving into his spot on the mattress, but leaving a casual arm draped over Qui-Gon's belly and making sure that his bare flank pressed against Qui-Gon all the way down.

Before Obi-Wan could settle his head comfortably on the pillow, his Master was out of the bed and into the 'fresher cubicle like a jack-in-the-box, clothes in his fist.

Qui-Gon swallowed hard, closing the door to the 'fresher as though barricading himself from danger. Was his padawan deliberately attempting to drive him mad? His mind was inflamed from the sight of Obi-Wan slowly, carefully, sensually chasing every last gleaming drop of water from the entirety of his glowing skin with the soft, absorbent towel. He remembered Obi-Wan suggesting that they might be observed. Obviously, Obi-Wan believed that; he was merely acting accordingly, being the sensual pleasure slave even in their private chamber. And Qui-Gon wasn't playing his role of the demanding but appreciative Master well at all.

Before witnessing the evidence he had just seen, Qui-Gon would not have seriously entertained the idea that Obi-Wan might be enjoying this charade, but that Obi-Wan was up to something was now undeniable. Perhaps he was trying to avenge himself for Qui-Gon not warning him about the mission when his Master had known that Obi-Wan wasn't paying attention to the crucial information in their briefing. Or ... or perhaps Obi-Wan had other motives, motives of desire for his Master.

That was a possibility Qui-Gon had not previously permitted himself to consider. He frowned slightly, resistant to the notion in spite of his own long-standing and long-suppressed yearning for more than the relationship between himself and his apprentice could offer. This mission was not the time or place for the exploration of such feelings, even if Qui-Gon had believed it was right to make such a journey into intimacy with a half-trained padawan learner -- which he definitely did not.

He had always been grateful that his apprentice had never even seemed to want to do so. During the mid-teen years when growing padawans typically pestered their Masters with awkward crushes and painful confessions, Obi-Wan had been clear-eyed and politely professional. The perfect demure propriety of his past behavior left Qui-Gon completely unprepared to deal with the sudden maddening eroticism of this young houri who now confronted him wearing his padawan's face.

Qui-Gon used his time in the shower to meditate undisturbed, and emerged in full control of himself. As he stepped out, his clothing in place down to the thick brown robe Obi-Wan had cleaned the previous evening, Obi-Wan was lying in the bed, eyes downcast, thinking, right knee drawn up and the tunic casually draped, exposing the entire left side of his body. Qui-Gon let himself glance and felt no reaction to the enticing pose. He felt quiet assurance that he was now better prepared to privately take on the role he had so far left behind himself when entering these quarters he shared with Obi-Wan. He was ready to be the stern slave Master, without losing his Jedi serenity.

Qui-Gon sat and ate his breakfast in silence, ignoring Obi-Wan as the young man lifted himself gracefully from the sleeping couch and moved to serve him. He made quick work of his food and then rose. "I want you to attend me today as I talk with the King," he stated, moving abruptly for the door.

"Yes, Master." The sweet lilting accent caressed his title, investing the two simple words with volumes of meaning.

Damn. And double-damn.

Obi-Wan's mild, submissive response sank into him like a lightsaber might pierce a training target, the bright jet of fire settling in his groin. His padawan had somehow managed to destroy his hard-won composure instantly. Qui-Gon had no idea how his Obi-Wan did it, but he had always been able to accomplish the task in one fashion or another, and usually he chose the most unfortunate of moments for his little unwitting conquests. Qui-Gon felt his fists clench in his sleeves, but he refused to let his eyes seek his student's. Simply turning to leave, he let Obi-Wan heel him without a leash, resisting the impulse to enjoy carrying out the part of mastery more than was strictly necessary.

The tiered room was much quieter this morning, occupied solely by the ship's complement of diplomats and their attendant slaves. Qui-Gon could not help but notice both Corm's and Qal's appreciative glances at Obi-Wan.

"Ambassador!" Again Corm took the lead as though it were his due, stepping forward to greet Qui-Gon. "I trust you had a pleasant evening." His eyes flickered amusedly to Obi-Wan, who blushed, retreating slightly behind his Master's shoulder.

"Quite," Qui-Gon answered neutrally. "The feasting and entertainment were superb." He gave Qal an acknowledging bow, and the Prince returned it with a more genuine smile than any he had produced the previous day.

Observing the activity of the assembled slaves, Qui-Gon turned slightly to Obi-Wan. "Assist in serving," he ordered.

"Yes, Master." Obi-Wan darted away, following several young men toward the kitchen alcove.

*****

The interaction was businesslike and professional. Qui-Gon's previous impressions of the power dynamic were borne out in the light of day; Ahar seemed content to listen while Corm took the lead, and Qal merely simmered in the background. Simmered, that was, when he wasn't watching Obi-Wan with politely veiled hunger.

Qui-Gon subtly plied Corm for information on his goals for Ria's interaction with the Republic, until lunchtime. The meal was served, simple fruits, bread, and cheeses, and Qui-Gon watched from the corner of his eye as Obi-Wan gave a petite blonde serving girl a furious look, baring his teeth to warn her away as he took the tray himself and began to serve his Master.

The slave girl shrugged at Obi-Wan saucily and trotted away, hips graceful and back straight.

*****

Qui-Gon was swallowing a piece of fruit, almost finished eating, when Qal filled his palm with cheese cubes and held them out to the slave girl who had brought their meal. Delicately she bent over his hand, feeding. Qui-Gon blinked, astonished. The girl was ravenous, eating neatly but swiftly, and Qui-Gon realized that this was the extent of her meal. With a sinking feeling in his stomach, he made a second connection, and his eyes drifted to Obi-Wan, who knelt silently beside him, his head bowed.

His padawan had not eaten since they came on board. And it was because Qui-Gon had not thought to feed him. No wonder Obi-Wan's temper had been high! I'm a lousy Master, Qui-Gon thought dismally. He remembered Obi-Wan kneeling at his side the previous night, serving him that very morning, never taking a morsel, never speaking, silently imitating the slaves he had observed so carefully.

Qui-Gon looked over the remainders on his tray, ashamed that they were so sparse. A few grapes, a cube of cheese, and a crust of sweet, crumbly yellow bread that had been near-burnt.

He steeled himself, reaching out and taking up the cheese, turning to Obi-Wan. "Eat," Qui-Gon's voice was gentle, apologetic, and Obi-Wan raised his head. "You were so silent I had near forgotten you." Obi-Wan did not move his hands to accept the cheese, and Qui-Gon felt his own adam's apple bob as he swallowed nervously, extending his palm as he had seen Qal do.

Obi-Wan leaned forward over Qui-Gon's palm slowly, his head bending. Qui-Gon's eyes drifted closed, and he exhaled helplessly. Obi-Wan's mouth closed over the cheese, his lips brushing his Master's palm as he ate what had been offered him.

Qui-Gon cleared his throat, forcing his eyes to open, and picked up the grapes, pouring them into his palm at once. Obi-Wan bent again, not lifting his head until he had taken and eaten them all. Qui-Gon's breathing was shallow and strained by the time he had finished, and he held himself still only with a supreme effort of will.

Then he placed the bread out, ashamed at its condition but not wishing to deny Obi-Wan nourishment. Obi-Wan bent forward for a third time, taking it deftly in his teeth, biting off small pieces of the crust, chewing and swallowing. Qui-Gon watched him, mesmerized, hypnotized by the play of the small muscles in Obi-Wan's neck and jaw as he chewed slowly, his head very slightly bowed. And then ... Qui-Gon's free hand clenched helplessly into his robes as Obi-Wan's tongue flickered forth, thoroughly licking the crumbs from his Master's palm.

Willing his hands not to shake, Qui-Gon gave Obi-Wan the remainder of his fruit juice, perhaps two mouthfuls, holding the cup as Obi-Wan swallowed, the muscles in his throat again contracting beautifully. Obi-Wan's hands rose to steady himself, the fingertips of the left barely touching the side of the cup, and the palm of his right resting lightly against Qui-Gon's extended arm.

"Your slave begs for use," Corm commented casually.

Qui-Gon flinched, almost having forgotten the others' presence in the heat of his reaction to Obi-Wan.

"Look at the way he hides his eyes as I speak," Corm pointed out, amused by Qui-Gon's surprise. "Look at the way he moves his body. The way he bends his head to feed and caresses your palm with his tongue. The way he is conscious of your gaze and holds himself proudly, yet vulnerably, before you. Your discipline is harsh for him." Qui-Gon automatically glanced at Obi-Wan, who did not dare raise his head to meet his Master's eyes, terrified that he had indeed given himself away, as Corm had observed.

"I do not mean it to be so." Qui-Gon reached and slid his fingers through Obi-Wan's soft, cropped hair gently.

"But it is so," Corm protested genially. "You send him from your furs publicly. You deny him clothing and food. You do not use him for pleasure -- I can read the signs in you both," he chortled, not intimidated by Qui-Gon's swift lowering of brows. "You even dry your hands in his hair," Corm pointed out, and Qui-Gon guiltily realized that must be what it looked, and probably felt, like he was doing.

"Come here, slave." Corm addressed Obi-Wan sharply as Qui-Gon's hand fell.

Automatically glancing at Qui-Gon, Obi-Wan moved hesitantly forward and knelt before the seated Riadan priest. Helpless and seething, Qui-Gon watched as Corm's expert hands tested Obi-Wan's muscular arms and legs, trailing professionally over his bare flanks. His padawan stiffened, but held himself straight under his own Master's eyes, not resisting. And then, without warning, Corm swiftly administered a slaver's caress.

Obi-Wan cried out, muscles jerking, as a rude finger tested him from the back and a hand closed over his front, both skillfully fondling his most sensitive areas. Tears of shame filled his eyes, but he could not escape. He was held fast for a moment, squirming frantically, his body beginning to respond involuntarily to the shocking, intimate touches, but before he could muster the Force to shove Corm away, Qui-Gon was there and his tormentor was jerked upright by the fabric of his shirt and flung against the wall, several feet from them.

The serving girls scattered, crying out with alarm, and Corm put his hand to his weapon. Ahar just chuckled mildly and sucked at his pipe. Qal leaned forward, wrapping his arms around his knees, watching intently.

Obi-Wan's eyes went wide as he realized that Qui-Gon had just attacked the High Priest of the Riadan Temple on his behalf, quite possibly destroying their mission. Qui-Gon's huge hands flexed as though he would like to do more, but he held himself rigidly in check.

The Jedi Master slowly reached down to his padawan and drew the young man against him protectively, his eyes staring a promise of murder at Corm. The High Priest rose, smiling thinly, eyeing Qui-Gon in turn, hand on his sword-hilt. "He wears silks of white, then, as I suspected," Corm commented insolently. "That is to say, he is a virgin. But very sensitive, highly responsive. He will be a hot slave." Corm smiled slowly, watching Qui-Gon's rage grow, entirely unaware of the consequences of so infuriating a Jedi Master. Then he shook the incident aside, backing down with a shrug.

"I apologize for touching your slave without permission, Qui-Gon Jinn. My curiosity bested me, and I did not realize you would object." Corm drew a white silk scarf out of his pocket slowly and shook it out for Qui-Gon to observe. "You should protect him, if you wish to reserve his instruction for yourself. Twine the scarf into his collar. It will mark him, tell others he is to remain untouched."

Qui-Gon accepted the scarf, his baleful gaze never leaving the priest. Corm's smile widened. "Perhaps you should carry arms, if you think you might wish to challenge an opponent," he suggested.

"You do not wish for me to challenge you," Qui-Gon informed him, his voice a deadly certainty. "I am a Jedi Knight and a warrior, Your Eminence."

"And I, too, am a warrior," Corm returned sharply. "I serve the cause of peace on this mission, Jedi Knight, but before I ascended to the priesthood, I was captain of the Chronian guard in Agus Ria, and I will not be easily taken in battle, should it come to that. But it need not. Come, he is only a slave. Let us set aside my rudeness." Corm bowed, a mocking light flickering in his eyes.

"He is my slave," Qui-Gon corrected Corm, voice still deadly velvet. "But for the sake of peaceful relations between our governments, I shall let this pass. Once."

Qui-Gon turned his attention to Obi-Wan, who was just beginning to recover his composure. As Obi-Wan made himself release Qui-Gon and step away, the Jedi Master found himself pursuing, very gently tipping up his padawan's chin with his forefinger and thumb. He leaned forward, faintly amazed at himself, and brushed a soothing kiss across Obi-Wan's lips.

He let his hand fall and stepped back again, finding Obi-Wan frozen once more with shock, his eyes closed, his lips barely parted, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Qui-Gon wished he, too, had leisure to indulge in a moment of withdrawal from the world, to analyze what was happening to him, to figure out why he had just thrown propriety to the nine Sith hells and kissed his padawan learner, to understand all the reasons why he wanted to reach out and kiss him again, to discover if Obi-Wan would melt beneath his mouth ....

With a great effort, Qui-Gon wrested control of his wandering mind and began to lace the white silk scarf into Obi-Wan's collar, as the High Priest had suggested. Obi-Wan stood perfectly still, lashes closed, and permitted it, tilting his head once to brush his smooth cheek against the bristles of Qui-Gon's short beard when Qui-Gon bent forward to reach behind his neck.

Qui-Gon swallowed thickly and tied the scarf in place, and then guided Obi-Wan to return to his place with him. A slave was clearing away the tray, which Qui-Gon suddenly realized he had knocked flying when he leaped to Obi-Wan's defense. He seated himself slowly, and Obi-Wan knelt beside him, glancing at Qui-Gon's eyes for the first time since the flurry of activity had begun. Obi-Wan's face was troubled, his shamed gaze revealing his vulnerability, and Qui-Gon opened his arms, inviting his padawan into their circle.

Obi-Wan slipped into his lap gracefully and without fuss, pressing his face into Qui-Gon's hair, and Qui-Gon held him, raising his eyes to the diplomats to gauge the severity of his infraction, hoping against hope that Mace had been right about their reaction to confrontation.

It seemed so.

Ahar tapped out his pipe, dismissing the incident, and continued, ignoring the remnants of Qui-Gon's anger. "I expect that you have trained your slave strictly," he mused. "He has many marks of a well-trained slave. Sensuality, vulnerability ... the grace with which he moves, his musculature ... superb."

"Indeed," Corm inclined his head politely in agreement.

Qui-Gon nodded tightly, acknowledging the compliments on Obi-Wan's behalf. The priest was still eyeing the young padawan appreciatively, and the longer he did so, the more certain Qui-Gon was that he did not like the man at all, and did not forgive him his transgression, even for the sake of diplomacy. It had been a deliberate taunt, man to man, designed both to test and to torment.

Qui-Gon stroked Obi-Wan's spine gently, reassuring the young man. He felt his hand move instinctively to shield Obi-Wan's most vulnerable, exposed area from Corm's intrusive eyes. Instead of tensing and jerking to escape as he had done when the priest touched him there, Obi-Wan inhaled softly as the edge of Qui-Gon's palm briefly brushed against him in its journey to conceal. The Jedi Master could feel Obi-Wan catch his lower lip between his teeth where his face lay against Qui-Gon's neck, and his padawan shifted slightly, ending by pressing even more tightly against him.

"Perhaps you will have him dance for us, as a favor to the throne," Qal suggested suddenly, distracting the Jedi Master from his torrent of confused half-thoughts. "As the slaves danced before you left last night."

"He is not trained in dance," Qui-Gon objected automatically.

"His legs are a dancer's ... or a warrior's," Corm pointed out, his eyes predatory as they devoured Obi-Wan. "Perhaps you have trained him in arts of war, Jedi."

"Is such forbidden to a Riadan slave?" Qui-Gon inquired warily.

"By no means." Corm shook his head. "There are many fighting slaves on Ria. Perhaps I should arrange a combat, eh? Wagers might prove profitable. Your slave against a champion of King Ahar's choosing."

Qui-Gon shifted uncomfortably, certain of Obi-Wan's ability but unwilling to risk his student against an unknown quantity with unfamiliar weapons unless it were unavoidable. "No," he decided.

Corm was visibly disappointed.

Obi-Wan raised his head, but hesitated, licking his lips nervously, hoping to save the worsening situation. Qui-Gon recognized that he wanted to speak. "Yes, Obi-Wan?"

"The katas, Master." Obi-Wan lifted his eyes. "I may perform a kata, if it pleases you."

It did not. The mere thought of Corm's hungry eyes watching Obi-Wan's nude body as he went through a training kata--! And those of two dozen other men ... and of slave girls ... he could almost hear Yoda's voice, the litany varying slightly as was appropriate to the occasion: "Jealousy comes from fear. Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering." It was a mantra no Jedi student ever forgot. Sometimes, Qui-Gon had heard it in his nightmares, a never-ending progression in which every emotion twisted itself in knots until it finally led to the Dark Side.

And adjacent to his jealousy, there was another less dark emotion: intrigue. Powerful, incandescent, and overwhelming. The urgent desire to see what Obi-Wan now offered to do.

He had never watched Obi-Wan -- or anyone, for that matter -- perform the katas nude. The very idea of watching Obi-Wan do such a thing sent blood surging through Qui-Gon, and it lingered in embarrassing places. Not for the first time in a long life, he had occasion to bless the loose, layered Jedi robes he wore. He shifted Obi-Wan slightly, moving the young man away from his impending erection as he considered the offer.

Qui-Gon hesitated, and in hesitating, was lost.

"It's settled, then," Qal announced with pleasure. "Will you require equipment, slave?"

"A sword, Master."

Again Qui-Gon experienced a severe jolt of jealousy, hearing that word -- his word -- addressed to another man by his Obi-Wan.

Qal was nodding. "You shall have a practice sword, slave."

"Yes, Master."

Qui-Gon gritted his teeth and pressed Obi-Wan's face into his shoulder to silence him. Once again, he felt those even white teeth, this time nipping him very gently.

Troubled, Qui-Gon gazed down at his padawan, wishing he had never permitted Obi-Wan to obligate them to this mission. There could be no situation that would cause a greater risk that Obi-Wan might learn of the inappropriate secret desires Qui-Gon harbored than this ruse, where those feelings must be at once tempted, expressed, and denied. There was no doubt about it -- the mission was not going as smoothly as Qui-Gon might have hoped.

He set his doubts aside, forcing himself to focus on the afternoon of talks that stretched before him.

*****

He saw to it that Obi-Wan received a good dinner that night, and plenty of liquids, so that he would be strong for the kata and would not waver. He was not quite sure what Obi-Wan intended to attempt. However, Qui-Gon was sure that whatever it was, it would be unforgettable.

He could hardly keep his mind off the upcoming performance, and when the time arrived, he was tense with anticipation. Obi-Wan rose lissomely and stepped forward into the lit circle, turning to face his Master, gazing into the flickering amber light of the torches the Riadans always set about in special stands during periods of dancing and entertainment, preferring the smoky golden illumination to the sterile white glow of artificial shipboard lighting. The torchlight shone beautifully on his skin, highlighting his muscular body with exquisite detail. "For your pleasure, Masters, I shall perform the saber kata designated the Grand Dance of the Art of War." He saluted, swinging his practice sword in a slow arc over his head, stirring the long gold ribbons that hung fluttering over the cleared area.

Qui-Gon slid his hands up his sleeves to hide the fists that formed, the white knuckles almost cracking. It was not a kata designed to be performed solo, but Obi-Wan could do a version of it alone. The Riadans would not recognize the difference, but he would. He would know that in Obi-Wan's mind and heart, he too danced in the circle of light. He would know that it was the imaginary specter of his body within millimeters of the bare flesh of his padawan. He would know that Obi-Wan was one with him, even in his absence. He would know that Obi-Wan performed this dance for his pleasure, and his alone, no matter who might be present to see.

*****

Corm watched Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon tightly from where he sat behind Ahar on the raised and cushioned royal dais, flanked by the sullen Qal and seven serving slaves. Corm smiled, noting that the King was once again enjoying the sweet smoke of his ever-present pipe. The King gestured vaguely with a fat, beringed hand, and Corm nodded with exaggerated reverence, signaling for the musicians to play. He would now discover the extent of the boy's ability, and from it, take a true measure of the men Valorum had sent as ambassadors to Ria.

Within less than twenty-four hours, he had been able to determine that Obi-Wan Kenobi was not a seasoned slave, though in many ways he seemed a natural one. Corm suspected that he was a fighter in his own right, a pupil of Qui-Gon's, one bound to his teacher with love and desire that had apparently been but sparsely returned to him, the disparity creating in him the natural desperate submission of a love slave in need.

Corm smirked slightly. Obi-Wan Kenobi, he suspected, was a dangerous warrior. As such, he would bend his back willingly before one man only: his love-Master, his teacher. Before any other, he would probably die rather than submit. It was conjecture, based merely on the look in the boy's eyes and on his carriage, but Corm trusted his instincts. They had always given him useful knowledge, and Corm filed his guesses away for future reference along with the unexpected occurrence of the afternoon, when he had tested Obi-Wan. It had happened swiftly, but Corm was also a warrior, with razor-honed reflexes, and he knew his hands had been peeled from the boy and pushed away even before Jinn touched him, catching him and flinging him with strength unnatural for even such a large man.

He had heard rumors of such during their short time on Coruscant, where he had dropped prompting words into sharp ears, seeking information about curiosities that might be valuable to slave traders and breeders on Ria. While the Supreme Chancellor had busied himself with Ahar, Corm had made several contacts of his own, secretly obtaining valuable information about the Republic. Among the most fascinating things he had learned of was the existence of the Jedi and their special powers. He had instantly realized the immense potential for profit that could be his if he succeeded in breeding those powers into his slave stock.

The Republic's ambassadors to Ria had not originally been formally identified as Jedi, but the invisible forces that had seized him when he had administered the slaver's caress to Obi-Wan had convinced him that one or both of the men must have Jedi powers. Consequently, he had not been surprised when Qui-Gon revealed that he was a Jedi Knight. Turning his eyes on Obi-Wan, Corm smiled narrowly. If the young slave were truly a competent, highly trained fighter, it was entirely possible that he was also well-trained in the Jedi mind arts. If that were so, purchasing or otherwise obtaining him from Jinn could prove convenient and potentially very profitable for Corm.

Yes, these two were dangerous. Very much so, far more than they appeared, even if not as much as the rumors had indicated they might be. One of his more highly placed contacts had warned him of the Republic's tendency toward squeamishness regarding the matter of slavery, and had spoken contemptuously of the sanctimonious morals of the Jedi. Jinn might discover his plans and take exception to them. He would have to be very careful -- it could be difficult, as well as inconvenient, to eliminate the Ambassador and his slave.

Even as he wondered at the extent of Obi-Wan's abilities and the level of expertise implied by the title "Jedi Knight," the dance began to answer him.

*****

Obi-Wan lifted the crude wooden blade in salute, his eyes seeming to penetrate the darkness and find Qui-Gon's, and then he drew the blade into the starting position, poised above his head, and his lashes closed. A long moment passed, the changes in Obi-Wan's body extremely subtle, as he sank into the fantasy of partnership.

Qui-Gon realized he was holding his breath, soaking in the sight of his padawan, arms and legs flexed, generous sex bare but unashamed, body taut and poised. Then, so quickly that only Qui-Gon knew it was coming, Obi-Wan flashed the wooden blade downward and pivoted, circling, dodging a blow that Qui-Gon knew he would have aimed, slicing down against an unreal parry, spinning past a body that was almost tangibly present in the tension of Obi-Wan's reactions to it. Obi-Wan almost seemed to use the absent body for momentum, interacting with it, flinging himself against it, attacking without ever piercing it, moving so rapidly and smoothly that his motions were dreamlike.

Qui-Gon was rapt. He had never seen Obi-Wan perform this dance from a distance; always he had been an active participant. Though no one else could, Qui-Gon could see a Force aura take shape, Obi-Wan's thoughts and emotions faintly embodying the absent sparring partner, and as they turned and clashed, ever more swiftly, he could make out its features. It was, of course, himself.

As the minutes passed and the kata speeded subtly and constantly, sweat began to pour from Obi-Wan, gleaming on his flanks and his chest, his body glowing from exertion, his eyes closed and face perfectly peaceful. Perspiration flew from his body in a fine spray that caught the light as his body snapped from position to position in fluid motion.

Qui-Gon felt his spirit lightening in his body, moving outward to join Obi-Wan's dance, to take his place at Obi-Wan's side, embodying the Force aura Obi-Wan spun with the strength of his concentration on the kata, but he resisted the pressure, keeping his eyes open to drink in the sight ... and slowly the kata ended, but the dance did not. It changed, subtly, as partnership became submission to the opponent's greater will. Obi-Wan held his sword before his body low, in both fists, seeming constrained to the mode of attack, even as he responded to the unfettered attacks of the unseen sparring partner.

The effect was almost unbearably sexual, and now rather than holding his own, Obi-Wan seemed battered by his ghostly opponent, toyed with, hardly worth notice. The attacks upon him spurned him with competent rejection, leaving him vulnerable and beautiful, helpless to resist, and yet required to do so. Qui-Gon realized he had bitten his lip at the symbolism, staring down with anguish, his heart torn by the change. He wondered if Obi-Wan realized that Qui-Gon could see who and what his padawan battled in his heart. Perhaps not; it was unlike Obi-Wan to reveal so much of himself inadvertently.

The battle continued, the futility of Obi-Wan's attempts to defend himself growing greater until he sank with exhaustion. And then it happened -- the blade was caught by his unseen opponent, twisted out of his hands, clattering as it was thrown aside. But Obi-Wan was not yet defeated. He leaped to his feet and the dance began anew, his body arcing and leaping as he sinuously dodged the imagined attacks that wove their invisible net around him. But he was doomed to fail. The ribbons that dangled about him, once so artfully avoided, now seemed his opponents as well, the gauzy fetters clinging to the sweat that covered him, tangling about an arm or ankle as he sidestepped, whipping about his thigh during a pivot. He faltered, relentlessly pursued and caught, his struggles valiantly continuing until he was snared and enmeshed in a graceful tangle of shining golden bonds. At last he fell to his knees, hands bound behind him, bending back to bare his throat, helpless before his insubstantial attacker. Defeated, unable to resist, he abandoned himself to the threat of the blade in ecstatic, erotic surrender.

Qui-Gon sat absolutely still as the men and women surrounding him, including the slaves, beat their open palms against the left side of their chests in enthusiastic applause. Even as Obi-Wan knelt alone in the ring, his dance finished, his chest heaving for oxygen, there was the sense of the other presence about him. Then his eyes opened, and the spell shattered, the ribbons sliding away from his body and puddling on the floor as he rose.

Qui-Gon realized he too was drenched with sweat. Rising, he strode downward, the crowd parting before him, and swept Obi-Wan into the wing of his cloak. Without a word, Qui-Gon led him away.

The Jedi Master's head was swirling as he made his way toward the door. His only thought was of Obi-Wan, of gently receiving and soothing the fragile emotions the dance had expressed to him, of responding to the yearning story of failing self-confidence and rejected love that Obi-Wan had just told him so eloquently and wordlessly.

Running headlong into Corm was a rude awakening from the erotic dream Obi-Wan had woven.

"Most enjoyable!" The High Priest beamed at him, and Qui-Gon nearly growled at the shorter man, clutching Obi-Wan to him beneath his cloak. Obi-Wan's arms circled his body; he was attached to Qui-Gon like a limpet, his feet barely touching the ground, his face buried in his Master's broad chest.

"A fine dancer, and well-trained. He dances his need well before us." Corm leered, and Qui-Gon's patience snapped.

"If you will pardon me, Your Eminence." A Force-enhanced shoulder moved Corm out of his path.

"Your need is also on you, I see," Corm's smile turned nasty. "Then perhaps at last you will not decline to avail yourself of the pleasures of this willing warrior you pretend is your slave."

That stopped Qui-Gon in his tracks, and his eyes rose, gleaming dangerously under the cowl of his hood.

"Come now, Jedi." Again, Corm was not deterred by the Jedi's most dangerous look. "The boy is clearly yours, yes, but it is also clear that he is a skilled fighter and that you are reluctant to treat him as a full slave. It is a trick on your Senate's behalf, sending the two of you in this guise. You are both warriors, spies who plan to seek the secrets of our government for the Republic's benefit."

"I have told you before that our customs are different from yours," Qui-Gon kept his voice smooth. "We are here only to determine if it is desirable for the Republic to extend trade courtesies to your people, not to seek political secrets." He swallowed, feeling dryness in his throat. "That I have not ... used ... Obi-Wan for my pleasure does not mean that I am a spy, or that he is."

"It is true," Qal intervened. "Ambassador Jinn told us yesterday that Obi-Wan is a new slave. Allowances should be made." The Prince stood nearby, arms folded.

"A new slave does not worship his Master so." Corm refused to be placated, lowering his brows and shooting Qal a threatening look. "Why is their relationship incomplete?"

Qui-Gon felt his throat threaten to close as he explained himself to Corm. "I have ... kept Obi-Wan myself for six years, since before he was thirteen, and he has been in service to my order since he was little more than a babe in arms. I trained him in the kata you saw tonight. He ...." Qui-Gon swallowed harshly. "He is my student, my ward, my responsibility ... my possession. I have not yet chosen to make him my lover."

"Lover." Corm seemed to taste the word. "An odd term for a Master to use."

"And yet, I am his Master." Qui-Gon met Corm's eyes directly. "In all things, I have always been so."

Obi-Wan murmured acknowledgment and seemed to try to burrow into Qui-Gon.

"But though you master his will, you have not taken him. You are not fully the master of his body." The Riadan Prince grudgingly agreed with Corm.

"Exactly." Corm was insistent, and the tone of his voice reminded Qui-Gon strangely of a Jedi Master attempting to instruct a recalcitrant pupil who failed to see the obvious. Qui-Gon was reminded suddenly of the religious aspects of sexual slavery on Ria, and began to wonder if the men he faced thought they were making a conversion.

"You have seen the papers," Qui-Gon rumbled. "I own his body."

"But you do not make him your slave." Corm shook his head flatly. "He does, by his own choosing. And choice ... well, that is not a slave's option."

Qal merely looked embarrassed and apologetic, shrugging at Qui-Gon. The Jedi nearly growled with frustration. It was true and it was obvious to men who had made a religion of owning and training slaves that Obi-Wan was not one, not in the fullest sense of the word.

Corm was shaking his head decisively. "If you do not prove that you are the boy's Master, then I cannot accept that anything you have told us is truth presented in good faith. You will both be imprisoned and tried as spies." Corm approached, contemptuously twitching Qui-Gon's cloak aside to bare Obi-Wan. "Look. He is not even branded!" He let the flap of cloth fall again.

"Slaves are not branded in the Republic --"

"They are in the sovereignty of Ria," Corm enunciated clearly, his tone warning. "There are irons aboard, Qui-Gon Jinn, and those who know how to use them."

Corm reached into his belt, producing an odd object that made Qui-Gon's eyes narrow. "There are whips aboard, as well. Your slave has not been pleasing, Jedi. He has stared contempt into the eyes of a free man without permission, mocking me with his gaze even after you reprimanded him."

"This is unnecessary!" Qal exploded suddenly. "He is a new slave, from a different culture! He does not yet fully understand the rules of our --"

Corm ignored him bluntly. "It is my right to request satisfaction, and your duty as his owner to give it." Corm shook out the object, a short handle with five wide leather blades splayed at its tip. "If this is in truth your slave, Jinn, you will be able to punish him."

"You go too far!" Qal hissed. "His slave is Ambassador Jinn's own to discipline! The boy has been danced hard, and given us all much pleasure. He has satisfied the gods!"

"Shall we consult your father?" Corm's words held a vitriol that forced Qal back a step. "He has not satisfied me. Your father will recognize my rights!"

Qal ducked his head, defeat and anguish plain on his face, but Qui-Gon had no leisure to feel gratitude for his attempt at intervention. Corm tossed the whip and Qui-Gon caught it reflexively. His pleasure in Obi-Wan's kata had turned to lead in his belly, and he gazed down at the top of his padawan's head, forced to resign himself to the inevitable.

Gently Qui-Gon unwrapped his cloak from Obi-Wan, meeting his apprentice's now tear-bright eyes. Obi-Wan turned his head, reaching for Qui-Gon's hand, and took the handle of the leather-strapped whip between his teeth, as he had seen a displeasing slave girl do the previous evening, offering it to his Master.

Qui-Gon reached out with a trembling hand, his palm curving over Obi-Wan's jaw and left cheek, caressing him. In spite of strict rules against influencing the minds of powerful dignitaries in the course of diplomacy, he could use the Force to overwhelm Corm's mind, make him call off the whipping. But Corm was not the entire problem. Qui-Gon felt many hostile eyes on him. They were eyes that would record and report back to their government and spread the word that the Jedi were spies, tricksters, not to be trusted. Even if he were willing to risk it, not even the legendary Qui-Gon Jinn could hope to influence so many minds at once. He was loath to do this thing, but it was better than branding ....

Corm triumphantly led them across the room to a frame with manacles attached to loose straps that dangled at four points on its edge. Even the King roused himself, hoisting his bulk from the floor and shuffling lazily through the discarded piles of ribbon as he crossed to observe.

Qal shouldered a guard away and gently worked to fasten Obi-Wan into the rack. Qui-Gon watched closely as the Prince tightened the leather manacles until they bit into Obi-Wan's skin. "They must be secure so that they will not shift and tear his flesh," Qal muttered, sensing the Jedi's frown. He finished, hesitantly caressing Obi-Wan's forearm before stepping back, his eyes deeply sad. The young Prince then turned away, gliding silently from the room.

Obi-Wan swung in the frame, offering no resistance, holding the whip between his teeth, his too-calm eyes locked on Qui-Gon, ignoring Ahar and Corm entirely.

Corm reached for the whip, and Qui-Gon elbowed him aside. "Obi-Wan is mine," he reminded him in a rasping voice. "You will not touch him."

Corm nodded his approval as Qui-Gon reached and Obi-Wan dropped the whip into his palm obediently. The Jedi Master paused, gathering himself, reaching out with the Force. He could feel the curve of Obi-Wan's back, the vulnerable ribs, the dip of his spine above his hips, the pulse and surge of the young man's life.

Letting the blades of the whip fall free, he swung it for a moment, as though testing its heft. He met Obi-Wan's eyes, a moment of intense silence passing between them, and stepped around the rack. Qui-Gon sank into the Force, gathered it, and extended it in a thin net over Obi-Wan's back, even as he drew back the whip and it whistled through the air, the thongs curling around Obi-Wan's ribs with a smart crack.

The hiss was his only warning, and tongues of flame licked his ribs lightly. Obi-Wan winced and jerked, swinging in the straps, but he remained silent. If it was to be no worse, he could bear it easily in spite of the shame of his helplessness and his horror at being struck by his beloved Master.

Corm scoffed. "Such a blow would not even punish a woman, Jinn. Strike him, or it will be done for you."

Qui-Gon felt his jaw lock, and directed the anger into the second blow.

The hiss again, like a nest of vipers. Angry ones, this time. Obi-Wan could sense Qui-Gon's bitter emotion, and it startled him, disrupting his center just as the blow landed, the sensation like fine wires slicing at his flesh. He grunted desperately, angry pink welts beginning to rise where Qui-Gon had struck him.

The Jedi Master felt sweat beading on his brow, struggled for calm. This must be done. There was no way around it. He felt his jaw cramp with grim tension. His arm flew back again.

SNAP. The rhythm had varied, catching Obi-Wan off-guard, a blaze of pain renewed in the stripes of the previous blow and added in those of this one. His throat spasmed. Sweat began to pour off him in rivers, as he struggled futilely for control. He could hear laughter ... directed at him? How could Qui-Gon do this --

CRACK. This time he had no defenses prepared to meet the blow, and a strangled cry escaped him. His back was aflame, and his face reddened with mortified shame as he heard the echo of his own gasp and realized how it must have hurt his Master to hear him cry out, even though he knew that sounds of pain would be necessary to satisfy Corm of the beating's adequacy.

Again, the hiss and slap of leather flaying skin. This time he bit his lip, tasting blood but muffling the cry that threatened to emerge, swelling in his chest. How long would it go on? How many more blows could he take before he shamed himself, shamed his Master by breaking into screams, by begging him to stop ....

"Master!" His cry was too late to forestall the next lash, keenly flaying pain from him. He could not keep silent, and he cast about for something to shout that would satisfy Corm's cruelty. "I will not fail you again!" Obi-Wan trembled, cringing from the sudden wave of anguish his call provoked in Qui-Gon, simultaneously knowing that it would seem to Corm that he feared more blows. Corm was laughing, and Obi-Wan bowed his head, trying to escape from the mockery in the man's eyes, from the remainder of the beating, but there was nowhere to go.

A seventh crack, and Qui-Gon's pain echoing his own, enhancing it ... it was too much! His own pain he could bear, but his Master's ... tears began to stream freely down Obi-Wan's face; he sobbed, horribly ashamed.

"I love you, Master," Obi-Wan gasped through his tears, lifting his face, struggling to see Qui-Gon, to reassure him, but his bonds prevented it.

Three further blows fell, delivered with desperate, savage speed, tiger-claws raking him left-right-left, the power of the impacts nearly wringing his hands in the wristlets. Obi-Wan wept, sagging, beaten.

Qui-Gon finally let the whip drop, exhausted and shaking. That had to satisfy Corm; he could not strike his apprentice again. He reached forward, feeling the heat rise from Obi-Wan's back as he loosened the straps and pulled them from the bloodless grooves in Obi-Wan's flesh. He caught his sagging padawan, holding him close. Obi-Wan was sobbing quietly, not completely in pretense, and he collapsed into Qui-Gon's arms, kissing his neck and chest desperately. Qui-Gon's anguish nearly suffocated him, and he gathered in his padawan carefully, trying not to touch the abused, flaming flesh of back and ribs.

Corm nodded sharply, grudgingly satisfied. "Let irons be heated," he directed his men.

"No." Qui-Gon stepped forward, pitching his words for Corm's ears only. He put all of the Force at his command behind the word, his fingers moving, hand rising toward the Riadan as though in casual protest. "Republic slaves are not branded."

"Republic slaves are not branded," Corm agreed fuzzily. "Put away the irons." Qui-Gon gently gathered Obi-Wan against him and led him away toward their quarters.

He had buffered the blows with the Force as much as he dared, only permitting enough contact that the angry weals would rise, showing that the whip had actually touched Obi-Wan. Though his apprentice had endured worse single injuries in training sessions with stinging charges from remotes and practice sabers, those were not so prolonged, personal, or humiliating as this beating had been. Obi-Wan was a fine actor, he decided, letting just enough of his genuine anguish show that Qui-Gon had not had to thin the buffer to make his padawan's reaction seem more real to Corm. Qui-Gon tried to reassure himself that Obi-wan had been carefully trained and was capable of taking far worse in utter silence, should he choose, dispersing his pain into the Force.

A worse, and more practical, problem was Qui-Gon's conviction that now more than ever, they must not let down the facade they maintained, even for an instant. If they did, Obi-Wan might find himself lying under a branding iron. They already teetered perilously close, and for only the slightest of infractions.

He led Obi-Wan back to their assigned quarters, whispering encouragement into his ear along the way. "A little further, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon whispered, drawing him close as they made their way down the narrow corridors, as much to shield him from the lustful eyes of the guards as to comfort him.

For appearance's sake, he pretended a carnal aspect, clutching his padawan to him roughly. It took little effort on his part to make the pretense, but Obi-Wan grunted in pain at the contact, flinching, and Qui-Gon realized that his apprentice was badly demoralized. Some amount of healing, both physical and psychological, would have to be done before they could continue with their mission.

Once in their quarters, Qui-Gon set to healing Obi-Wan's back, bathing his insulted flesh with Force-energy and encouraging a quick recovery with much-eased pain.

The burning heat of the beating dissipated almost completely, leaving only the angry swollen welts on the very surface of his skin, but Obi-Wan continued to keep his face averted from his Master, shamed. I told him. I said it. The thought was worse than the beating, worse than a thousand beatings. He could not lift his face, was mortified by the admission and the way that it had been wrung from him, and he was terrified to meet Qui-Gon's eyes lest he find only rejection and pity waiting there.

Qui-Gon tried to turn him over, to cajole the young man to look at him. "Padawan," he began.

And then the thrice-damned door chimed.

Qui-Gon surged to his feet and slapped the button to open the door. "What now, Force curse you?" he thundered, but was utterly silenced by the sight of a cringing slave girl, trembling at his feet, her forehead touching the floor only an inch from the tips of his boots, her hair flowing over the deck, her shaking arms lifting up a sealed note on a golden salver.

Qui-Gon felt like an inexcusable brute for perhaps the tenth time that day, and miserably wondered what had become of his control. He took the note and broke Ahar's royal seal, opening it to find an invitation from the King. A summons, really, informing Qui-Gon that his presence, and that of his "pretty slave," was still expected for the remainder of the festivities. It fairly reeked of Corm's influence.

Qui-Gon looked from the trembling girl at his feet to the trembling apprentice in his bed. Was this ordeal never going to end?

"Obi-Wan," he sighed, "We must go. We are summoned."

His padawan laboriously drew himself to his feet, making a visible effort to compose himself. Qui-Gon moved to the young man's side, laying his hand on Obi-Wan's forehead, using the Force to perform a calming on the boy. After a long pause, Obi-Wan's eyes rose to his at last, reddened but calmer, resigned to endure.

Together, they allowed the girl to lead them to the feasting chamber.

*****

Setting aside his empty goblet of wine and surveying the crumbs that remained of his and Obi-Wan's meal, Qui-Gon sighed. The moment he had dreaded (and guiltily yearned for) had arrived. He had to prove his claim that Obi-Wan was his, in all ways, or be accused again by Corm, and then they would be imprisoned and perhaps slain. At the very least Obi-Wan would be branded. Of that he was certain. He vowed never to let it happen.

Qui-Gon glanced about himself uncomfortably, conscious that Obi-Wan was waiting with silent awareness for the next step. A slave girl took the remains of their dinner, replacing it with a tray containing a selection of the Riadans' preferred ... religious aids ... for use in the upcoming service to the gods. Around the room, Masters and slaves were finishing their meals and beginning to writhe in embarrassing and fascinating contortions as they worshipped their chosen god, their passions honed by the sensual beauty of Obi-Wan's kata. Cries of pleasure were already beginning. Qui-Gon knew that to refuse to participate would be fatal.

But he could not bring himself to reach for Obi-Wan.

Qui-Gon was not sure what restrained him in the face of necessity. He knew Obi-Wan had acquiesced to this role, and adapted all too well to playing it, becoming mired in its demands, beginning to lose his identity, absorbing the degradation that was thrust upon him, clinging to Qui-Gon as his single anchor. He knew his padawan trusted him implicitly, and knew that trust had always been well-founded.

Until now.

The thought of touching his newly-beaten apprentice under these circumstances sickened him even as it aroused him almost beyond bearing. And the knowledge that Obi-Wan's trust was misplaced ... that pain burned Qui-Gon like nothing he had ever imagined, searing his gut like a saber-thrust through the body. Obi-Wan believed that Qui-Gon was his Master, his protector. Not a predator. He believed that Qui-Gon's touch would come of necessity and protectiveness, and not of desire and raw animal intent.

And it was not true. Qui-Gon shuddered as Obi-Wan's hand fell gently on his knee.

"Master," Obi-Wan prompted him, very softly.

This had to be done, the ruse must be carried through. His padawan's acknowledgment of the fact lent him the strength he required.

"Obi-Wan." My padawan. My love. My .... He could not permit himself to think it.

Qui-Gon reached for Obi-Wan, gathering him close, running his hand deliberately down the front of his apprentice's body and feeling the slow, responsive shiver that greeted the intimate touch. Obi-Wan's arms slid about his Master, and Qui-Gon gently lifted him and pressed him backward onto the luxuriant wooden frame piled lavishly with cushions and animal furs that had been provided to double as a sitting couch and a pleasure bed. He was uncomfortably conscious that Obi-Wan would still feel a slight sting of pain from his whipped back. "Trust in me," he breathed in Obi-Wan's ear, the lie almost burning his tongue. And in truth it was unnecessary except for self-punishment; Obi-Wan was as pliant as silk in his arms. There was not a hint of resistance in him.

Qui-Gon was glad that there was little necessity to remove clothing. Obi-Wan was purely bare beneath him, and he had no need to remove a stitch of his own attire. He had merely to pretend convincingly that he had done so.

He drew the furs about them, rolling Obi-Wan on top of him and then back onto the floor so that they were trapped in a sleeve of warm softness. Corm sat nearby, idly fondling a girl, the sweat-stained whip tapping idly at his thigh, but Qui-Gon ignored him, concentrating on Obi-Wan instead. His padawan's bright blue eyes were serene, gazing up into Qui-Gon's, and his lips were soft, parted, ready to be kissed, so irresistible that Qui-Gon tasted them lightly in spite of himself.

Sweet, warm satin, so subtly moist, so generously yielding. Faint warm breath on his cheek. The slight fullness of his padawan's lower lip as Qui-Gon pressed a little deeper, the soft sensation of the young, willing mouth parting beneath his own ....

Obi-Wan moaned, the barest whisper of a plea as his Master pulled away, and Qui-Gon felt his hands knotting in Obi-Wan's short soft hair as he lunged helplessly back into that welcoming, vulnerable mouth, ravaging it. He bit blindly at the mobile lips crushing beneath his, swirling his tongue over the flesh his teeth grasped, then felt their teeth click together as he drove his tongue into Obi-Wan's mouth, licking the tender flesh of his palate. He could taste Obi-Wan's sweat, sense his shock at the unexpected hunger in Qui-Gon's ravishing kiss. Qui-Gon hardened instantly, helplessly, teasing Obi-Wan's tongue with his own, feeling his padawan recover suddenly and flicker his own tongue lightly against Qui-Gon's, inviting him even deeper.

Force, but he could almost believe Obi-Wan truly wanted this, even as much as Qui-Gon did! And with that, he realized that Obi-Wan was hard too, squirming against him, uncomfortable from the pressure of Qui-Gon's weight trapping his erection against his Master's pelvic ridge. Qui-Gon shifted without thinking, and Obi-Wan sighed wordless thanks into his mouth.

Obi-Wan's hands slid over Qui-Gon's back, then dipped, moving to his Master's single tunic. Listening to the remaining shreds of his rationality, Qui-Gon reached to stop his padawan's questing hands, forcing himself to break the devouring sweetness of the kiss. "No," he whispered raggedly, but it was too late. Obi-Wan's palms were beneath his shirt, wandering hesitantly over his chest and around his ribs to his shoulders. Qui-Gon shut his eyes, battling for control. He forced himself to reach and gather his padawan's arms, dragging those seeking hands from his body, pushing the young man's arms above his head. He could not trust himself to maintain his control if Obi-Wan ... cooperated.

Qui-Gon reached for a set of wrist cuffs that lay in the tray and quickly clipped his padawan's wrists together, fastening them around the heavy iron ring bolted to the sturdy wooden frame of the couch, immobilizing the young man's arms over his head. He could not look into his padawan's questioning eyes. Obi-Wan again did not resist him, limbs moving with smooth sweetness, dwarfed in Qui-Gon's huge palms.

"Master," Obi-Wan murmured, his voice near breaking from an emotion Qui-Gon could not quite identify.

"Hush, my slave." Qui-Gon tasted the words at last, having avoided them until this moment, when they slipped out and caught him unawares, the breath in his throat catching at their conclusion.

Obi-Wan did so, sighing very quietly as Qui-Gon pressed against him and turned him to his belly. His Master's weight settled on his back, driving him firmly down into the furs.

Qui-Gon knew he was helpless to prevent Obi-Wan from feeling the thick hardness of his erection as the charade entered its final stage, as though the lad hadn't felt it already, but he also knew the depths of Obi-Wan's trust. Whether or not his padawan felt love and desire for his Master, Obi-Wan would accept this, as he had been doing already, without believing it a threat to him.

The young Jedi tried to breathe under Qui-Gon's weight, oxygen deprivation already making him light-headed. He very nearly cursed his Master's decision to bind him and turn him to his belly. He had hoped this might give him the excuse, the pretext he had needed to touch Qui-Gon, to kiss him, to discover the hard, scarred body of the Jedi who had owned him, he now understood, since he was barely out of his childhood. His dismay at his Master's restraint was cruelly sharp. Qui-Gon had not removed even a stitch of clothing; there was only rough fabric against his skin.

But disappointment aside, there was a pretense to be maintained, and though Qui-Gon's lips and teeth did not find the skin of his throat as his Master moved his face against Obi-Wan, the young Jedi squirmed and cried out as though they had, imagining the rough liquid texture of Qui-Gon's tongue and the pleasurable sting of his teeth. "Master, Master," Obi-Wan moaned, giving himself over to the fantasy, to the reality, bucking beneath Qui-Gon's weight. "Take me!" The words were tense, hissed between gritted teeth, and he drove his hips upward against his Master's body.

Qui-Gon's fist clenched in the furs and he drew a sharp breath, trying to ignore Obi-Wan's apparent enthusiasm. Even if his padawan actually believed he wanted this, now was neither the time nor place. The sooner this fakery was done, the better. He could delay the inevitable no longer.

Qui-Gon lifted himself on his elbows and slid upward, resettling with his weight only partly against Obi-Wan. He moved his hand to the closure of his trousers and fumbled there, so that it might seem to Corm that he opened them. He settled the white heat of his stiffness against Obi-Wan's hips, the swelling of his erection nestling into the cleft naturally even though the trousers restrained Qui-Gon and prevented contact. Obi-Wan uttered a shuddering sigh that ended in a pleading whimper. Where was the boundary between charade and reality? Qui-Gon could no longer trust himself to judge it.

He lifted himself slightly and thrust further upward, mimicking entry, and Obi-Wan cried out sharply, thrashing, struggling against the slave-ring, as his penis was ground into the thick furs beneath them.

Qui-Gon thrust again, sliding along the cleft, the rough cloth of his trousers chafing Obi-Wan's skin, but he couldn't help it, it was almost unbearable to him as well, binding his erection painfully and yet arousing him further.

Qui-Gon resisted the temptation to run his palms down Obi-Wan's sweating sides, resisted the need to kiss and bite the nape of his padawan's neck, and thrust again, grinding his hardness into Obi-Wan's softness. Again, and again, as Obi-Wan shrieked and wept beneath him, his passionate cries tearing through Qui-Gon's resistance, driving Qui-Gon toward madness.

"Yes, Master!" Obi-Wan arched his head back, desperately trying to reach Qui-Gon's lips, and Qui-Gon wondered dimly how his padawan had managed to move so far, pinioned under his considerable weight, but it was natural, also. For was it not perfectly right and unsurprising that Qui-Gon had rolled to one side so that his hand could fumble again at the fastening of his trousers, this time freeing himself? Yes. So right that his penis sprang free and nestled against Obi-Wan's flesh. So good that his padawan squirmed to open beneath him. So irresistible, the sensation of himself nudging between the smooth tight cheeks, pressing firmly to enter, excluded only barely by the resistant virgin tightness of the young man's body.

And Obi-Wan was crushed beneath him again now, whimpering and crying, pleading, as the thrusts began in earnest .... Qui-Gon froze, horrified, eyes fixed on the padawan braid trailing at the side of Obi-Wan's neck, recalling to him duty, responsibility, and the Jedi Code.

Obi-Wan's hips bucked, pressing backward as he struggled, the impatient motion threatening to engulf the erection that pressed against him, but Qui-Gon was already moving with Jedi reflexes, angling upward. His penis slid into the cleft instead of impaling his padawan, the mingling of disappointment and relief so unbearable that Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan threw their heads back and voiced their loss in separate cries of relief and despair, one hoarse and rough, the other desperately pleading. A grotesque parody of shared orgasm, it would have to be enough.

Qui-Gon rolled off Obi-Wan, shaking, not caring that the furs slipped away and left him bare to Corm's sight. He gasped for air. Obi-Wan lay trembling and sobbing at his side, unable to move away from the slave ring, his face averted.

"Get back to the room," Qui-Gon rasped.

"Master!" Obi-Wan lifted his face, his eyes filling with shining moisture.

"Do as I say!" Qui-Gon snatched Obi-Wan's wrists, freeing him roughly. Obi-Wan pushed himself to his knees, his mouth working, searching for words.

"Go!" Qui-Gon barked furiously, shaking with rage, and Obi-Wan scampered away.

Corm chuckled and clapped, pleased and convinced by the passionate pretense. "Bravo, bravo, my fine Jedi Knights!" Qui-Gon ignored him. As Obi-Wan stumbled from the room, covering his mouth with his hand, Qui-Gon reached out blindly, his hands closing on the waist of a passing slave girl.

She was warm and willing, clinging to Qui-Gon instantly, mouth sultry as it sought his, and he flung her to her back, plunging into her welcoming body without further preamble.

Qui-Gon's eyes closed.

The girl he had chosen was slim, her curves understated, and Qui-Gon realized it was not hard to imagine that the yielding body he penetrated belonged to a young man -- to Obi-Wan. There were, of course, certain differences, but Qui-Gon's mind nearly smoked from the vivid memory of Obi-Wan's touch, of the shape of Obi-Wan's body beneath him. Qui-Gon succumbed to the fantasy, hoping it would exorcise the desire that possessed him.

The memory of Obi-Wan beneath him was one that would never fade. Now, only minutes after reality, its shattered edges seemed sharp as diamonds. Qui-Gon could recall Obi-Wan's cries almost vividly enough to hear them echoing in his ears, and the woman's were lost beneath the memory. Obi-Wan, his skin hot and soft, yielding to Qui-Gon's hands, to his lips. A groan wrenched itself from Qui-Gon's throat. The woman arched into him as Obi-Wan had almost done during that last moment, and Qui-Gon growled, thrusts coming harder and faster. He could very nearly taste Obi-Wan's sweat on his lips instead of the girl's slave-rouge. Qui-Gon paused, sweat gathering in his long hair, plastering it against his throat.

He ignored the squirming slave girl beneath him as the forbidden fantasies rushed in like the tide. Oh, he was damned ... damned for wanting this, damned for indulging it, even in pretense! Giving up the last of his scruples, he permitted himself to picture how a willing Obi-Wan would arch into his thrusts, his fingers grasping, digging into Qui-Gon's arms, his hair teased into sweat-soaked spikes ... sweat trickling over the collar clasped tight around his throat, the collar with Qui-Gon's name inscribed upon it.

He remembered how the tight entrance to Obi-Wan's youthful body had felt at the tip of his pressing penis, how vulnerable Obi-Wan had been to him, how he had struggled, writhing as though he would push himself onto Qui-Gon's erection inadvertently in his distress. A hissing gasp escaped him. Now the Obi-Wan beneath him was not the willing creature of his previous fantasy. It was the panicked young man who had lain under him this very night, not certain if he was squirming to escape or to be taken. But this time, Qui-Gon did not control himself. Instead of angling away, he slid his palms under the imaginary Obi-Wan's hipbones and drove deep, sheathing his full length in a single thrust.

The slave girl, now on her belly beneath him, tossed her head with a wild gasp, but Qui-Gon did not hear her. Instead, he heard the voice of his padawan, crying love to him: Master. Master.

Yes. He was Obi-Wan's Master, in this and in all things, and Obi-Wan knew it in no uncertain terms, accepting Qui-Gon's driving thrusts with the same small, helpless, passionate noises Qui-Gon had infrequently heard him make in the night, in his sleep, when they were quartered together.

His fist closed in long, perfumed hair, but longed to close about a slender braid ... the woman was arching, gasping, murmuring heated endearments, clenching him with her skilled body ... but it was all Obi-Wan in his mind, his padawan now overcoming the shock, turning his face over his shoulder to growl soft, half-pained encouragement to Qui-Gon, shoving his hips back to take all of Qui-Gon's aching length, whispering tensely for his Master to thrust harder, faster ... the spark leaping from his eyes as Qui-Gon did so ... the hissing escape of his breath ....

Again, the girl screamed her passion, her submission, but this time, Qui-Gon heard her. Her, a girl, an anonymous slave. Not his Obi-Wan, screaming orgasm and love to him. He felt himself wilt in mid-thrust.

Qui-Gon was dazed, disappointed. In his passion he had entirely forgotten her. Now he released her, feeling emptiness close about him. He needed Obi-Wan's body in his arms. He needed sleep and a great quantity of wine to make him forget. Qui-Gon freed the girl and pushed her away from his aching flesh. She rose indolently, her eyes shining at him in spite of the brutal treatment he had given her.

"Fetch wine." Qui-Gon hurried her with a slap on her rump. He would drink, to calm himself and to permit Obi-Wan time to do the same. Then he would return to his room.

He did not notice Qal, who had returned to the feasting chamber after the beating was over and now sat trembling in a corner staring at the Jedi Master, his face white and wretched. The Prince rose on shaking legs and hurried away.

*****

Obi-Wan wandered down the corridor, dazedly staring at nothing. The patter of his bare feet echoed hollowly in the empty space, emphasizing his solitude. He was not quite sure what had just happened, but he knew it was bad. Possibly worse than he and his Master could recover from.

It all depended on how Qui-Gon had interpreted what had happened, and what had caused his sudden anger. Obi-Wan could be certain on neither count, and he struggled against the temptation to jump to conclusions, instead framing a general apology, one that would be just ambiguous enough to cover everything without admitting anything. "I'm sorry, Master. This mission was unexpected, and the stress is getting to me. I'll ...." I'll what? Never do it again? Do it immediately? Forget this ever happened? All were possible responses, and he could not choose from them, not without knowing his Master's mind.

The rough guard who stood before the access hatch to the sleeping quarters eyed him, and Obi-Wan mustered the Force. He'd had to use it before, to keep the man from violating him, though he hadn't told Qui-Gon. A small push was all that was needed to persuade the man that he wasn't in the mood, and another kept him from chaining Obi-Wan as he had done before.

Obi-Wan was in no mood to spend the night on the floor, trussed like a crate of supplies for the sake of their cover, waiting for a Master who might not come back to him before morning, if then. He'd seen the look in Qui-Gon's eyes, and though he had never seen it on his Master before, he knew what it meant. It meant that his Master had been within a hair's breadth of having him, and that his level of sexual frustration was such that petty matters of politeness, Jedi ethics, or even simple squeamishness would not stand between him and release.

Only something exceptional could stand in the path of such desire.

Apparently, Obi-Wan thought wryly, he was rather exceptional. He wasn't sure, though, whether to be flattered or insulted.

He moved toward the 'fresher cubicle for a shower, but paused with the door only half-open. He was covered with Qui-Gon's scent and his sweat, the feeling of his Master's flesh still tingled on his body. He could not bear to wash it from himself. Not now, not when he was tormented by the dread that Qui-Gon would never touch him so again.

Obi-wan lay down in the bed. It too smelled of Qui-Gon. Giving in to childish impulse, he took the pillow his Master had used. Running his palm across it, he found three long hairs, one silver and two brown. He used the Force to braid them, delicately, and wound them about his finger. They wrapped it thrice, forming a near-invisible circlet. He tied it and sank down into the hollow his Master's head had left. Slow tracks of liquid slid from beneath his closed lashes. He was a mess, physically and emotionally. One of those things he had the power to remedy.

Obi-Wan smiled bitterly, his face still wet. If Qui-Gon's behavior of the previous night was any indication, he would have plenty of time.

*****

Qui-Gon approached their quarters with slowing steps, but he could not prevent himself from arriving. After a moment, he forced himself to activate the door, stepping into the darkened room. He paused to get his bearings.

A soft noise greeted him, reverberated through him, and it wrung a small groan from his chest that dissipated inches from his lips.

Obi-Wan. Qui-Gon stepped forward in the small antechamber very slowly, hugging the shadows, until his field of vision moved around the corner, and his gaze fell on the bed. There was just enough light streaming in from the half-open door of the 'fresher for him to see clearly.

Obi-Wan lay spread-eagled, the sheets covering half his left leg and barely draped over the ankle of his right. The lines of his body were taut, his back slightly arched, his small tight muscles highlighted with glow and shadow. His left arm was flung out next to his head, his hand a tight fist on the pillow. His right hand was closed around his half-erect penis, stroking slowly.

Qui-Gon felt his mouth go dry, and he sagged against the wall helplessly as his knees threatened to give way beneath him. Of all the things he had failed to anticipate .... Obi-Wan, eyes shut, never noticed the faint flicker of his Master's shadowed presence.

He drew his fist up in a smooth, steady stroke that tightly harnessed all of the violent potential for energy in that taut, vital body, his thumb squeezing the vertical ridge that extended for the length of his penis, milking it gently. He stirred, his body rustling against the sheets as he snugged his hips down into the mattress, swallowing. The faint clicking of his throat reverberated through Qui-Gon, as did the slow intake of breath and the rise of Obi-Wan's slender but well-muscled chest.

The dim light from the door shifted on Obi-Wan's skin as the young man moved, briefly throwing his ribs into relief, pooling his face in shadow. His hand slid to the root of his erection and pulled upward again. Qui-Gon's eyes riveted to the hand's slow process, to the ridge of loose skin that pushed up in its path and then slipped through the clasp of Obi-Wan's fingers. Obi-Wan rotated his palm slightly at the top of the journey, smoothing the soft sheath of flesh around the crown, his breath escaping him in a deep, weary sigh.

Qui-Gon realized his mouth was hanging open and closed it with a sharp snap. Obi-Wan's left hand awoke and strayed downward, curling beneath his testicles and lifting them gently, fingering them slowly, his right hand sliding to the base of his penis again until the blade of his palm lay against the soft sac of skin, and then he pulled upward again, more sharply.

As he did, he arched upward as though his spine were boneless, inhaling and holding the breath, his hand repeating its swift transit. He was fully erect now, and the light caught faintly, shining on a drop of fluid at the tip. Qui-Gon could almost taste it, swaying forward involuntarily before he regained control and forced himself to remain hidden.

Obi-Wan shifted again, turning slightly to his side and drawing one knee up, his bare foot whispering along the pale sheets. Bracing on his left arm, he curled his body, his hand beginning to slide more rapidly and more loosely. Up and down it plunged, drawing Qui-Gon's tortured eyes along with it, the repetitive circuit hypnotic. The tableau lasted for perhaps a dozen strokes before Obi-Wan shifted once more, sliding into the half of the bed furthest from the wall. He lay back, his breathing swift and harsh, his hand abandoning his penis, which sagged to the side, neglected, as Obi-Wan simply spread himself on the bed and breathed.

Qui-Gon felt his brow crinkle slightly, wondering what his student was doing. Obi-Wan reached to his side and his palm slid over a pillow, almost reverently.

He gathered it up to himself gently, as though it were a living thing, bringing it close to his face. The slow, measured rise and fall of his chest spoke of deep breathing, though relaxation techniques were hardly to be expected during such a moment. Obi-Wan clasped the pillow to his chest, his arms sliding about it, snuggling it to him like a person's body, and his knees came together, leaning away from the light, as he rocked there, slowly, gently, for a long moment, enjoying the imagined embrace.

Obi-Wan's lips brushed gently against the pillow, and his arm stole down, the palm wrapping about his erection again. Face buried in the pillow, Obi-Wan began to stroke in earnest. The pillow muffled his groans, and Qui-Gon fought against his impatience to hear him, stepping forward without realizing it.

Qui-Gon felt his own penis stirring urgently, insistent for the completion of the act he'd failed to finish twice already this evening, and his palm strayed over his robes, clasping the swelling ridge that lay beneath. His head fell to his chest, his beard scrubbing faintly against his tunic, but his eyes stayed riveted on his slave, his padawan, peering over his aquiline nose, piercing beneath the low-pulled brows. His left arm curled around his body, much as Obi-Wan's curled about the pillow, the imaginary lover, the stand-in for whatever body he was imagining next to his own.

Qui-Gon's hand burrowed beneath his robe to free the straining flesh. Obi-Wan's climax would come soon, and Qui-Gon did not want to be left behind, or worse, caught. His hand closed around his own body, the skin exquisitely sensitive from thwarted desire. His penis was painfully erect, begging for attention. It would not take much. Obi-Wan would never have to know his weakness.

Obi-Wan's hips began to jerk, and he fell onto his back again, writhing, but still he curled around the stiffened organ that was the temporary center of his being, head and hips lifting from the surface of the bed, small tortured gasps muffled by the pillow he still pressed to his face.

Obi-Wan's gasps were not so quiet anymore, and the muscle in his arm was clearly ready to cramp; his grip must have been painful but he did not slow, using his hips instead, pushing upward ... faster ... harder .... Qui-Gon felt his testicles tighten in sympathy, his breath coming in hoarse groans that were lost in the helpless, half-strangled noises that Obi-Wan was making. He was just a heartbeat behind Obi-Wan, and the moment was coming fast.

And then the pillow rolled from Obi-Wan's face, forgotten in the heat of the moment, and his padawan's moaned words became audible to him. "Master. Ohhh ...." Obi-Wan's voice cracked with tension. He inhaled with a sharp hiss, shifting, and unbelievably the strokes whipped faster, harder. "Your slave ... Qui-Gon ...." Obi-Wan's head jerked to the side, his expression agonized. "Please!" The word was a whimper, escaping through clenched teeth.

Qui-Gon's fists closed, knuckles cracking as he struggled with the impact of the unexpected revelation. Obi-Wan wanted him. Wanted to be taken by him. Wanted Qui-Gon to master him as both man and slave.

A red madness of desire mingled with despairing anger at his padawan for bringing him to this pass flooded through Qui-Gon on the heels of understanding, eliminating the tattered shreds of his restraint and sweeping away the ruins of his control.

"Stop!" his voice grated harshly as he stepped forward. Obi-Wan shied violently, his lids snapping open, startled eyes deep and terrified, his lower lip beginning to tremble with excuses, denials. "If you are determined to be a slave, then remember that your Master has not given you permission to touch your body!" The sharp words forestalled any attempt at justification, and Obi-Wan swallowed hard, giving a single shamed nod, submitting to the reprimand humbly and without any attempt at defense. He bowed his head, the motion hiding his face in shadow. There was much of both the slave and the padawan in the simple gesture.

The perfect defeated acquiescence as Obi-Wan lowered his shame-filled gaze tore something open deep inside the Jedi Master, and he could resist no longer. His hands tore at his belt, his tunic, and his breath came ragged as he flung them away. Obi-Wan lifted only his lashes and watched, still as a startled deer, only his eyes moving, taking in the sight of Qui-Gon's uncharacteristic frenzy. His Master, magnificent muscular body gleaming in the bar of light from the adjoining room, stalked forward. His knee fell on the rumpled sheets. Obi-Wan felt himself go slack, felt his hand trickle from his lap to the mattress, his muscles tingling with sudden weakness, his feet sliding along the sheets as his knees sagged, even though there was no weight upon them.

Qui-Gon's hands closed on his shoulders, effortlessly dragging him up to meet a savage kiss. Obi-Wan's eyes closed, and he let his mouth melt under Qui-Gon's demand, opening eagerly to his Master's probing tongue. He could barely endure the sensation of Qui-Gon's leg moving over his body, his hips coming to rest on Obi-Wan's thighs, the crisp hair between his legs rough against Obi-Wan's still-unsatisfied penis.

"Raise your arms above your head." Obi-Wan complied, grasping the headboard, the fading rational part of himself faintly aware that Qui-Gon's childhood accent had emerged, as it occasionally did in moments of stress. The words, though harsh, were laced with its music, and Obi-Wan sighed with happiness, doing as he was told. "Don't move them until I say you may," Qui-Gon warned.

"Yes, Master," Obi-Wan breathed, and Qui-Gon devoured the words from his mouth with another fierce, bruising kiss, teeth sharp on the fullness of Obi-Wan's lower lip, hands rough as they claimed Obi-Wan's body, ranging over him, exploring every bit of flesh, finding hidden sweetness. Obi-Wan moaned as Qui-Gon's mouth left his and found his throat, kissing about the collar.

"Part your legs," Qui-Gon commanded, and Obi-Wan obeyed immediately. Qui-Gon moved to kneel between them, savoring the sight of a single drop of fluid gleaming at the tip of the heavy erection that sagged toward Obi-Wan's tight belly. He tested the weight of Obi-Wan's sensitive testicles in his palm, stroked the soft, yielding skin over the taut flesh of his slightly curved shaft, traced a pulsing vein with his fingertip, forcing himself to wait, whetting his desire. It was far too late for second thoughts.

At last, unable to delay longer, he bent forward, giving in to the overwhelming temptation to taste his student's lust. Obi-Wan's eyes followed with disbelief as Qui-Gon bent close and touched his tongue to the salty droplet that had gathered. Qui-Gon could hear Obi-Wan's nails scratching at the headboard as his padawan struggled to be still. He slowly slid his tongue inside the tight sheath of skin, swirling it around the hot, damp hardness that lay within. Obi-Wan jerked, a hissing gasp escaping his lips.

Qui-Gon reached beneath his padawan's hips, drawing them up in a thrust as he slid Obi-Wan deep into his throat, listening to his apprentice's ecstatic whimpers. He wanted more, but his padawan was too close, and he did not want this to end yet. Not this way, not this time.

Obi-Wan suppressed a flicker of fear as Qui-Gon withdrew his hot, clinging mouth, terrified that his Master would stop himself again before it was finished, but he soon found his fears were unjustified. Huge palms caught his thighs, pressing them out and up until his knees nearly rested on his shoulders. Obi-Wan shivered with frightened anticipation, knowing what came next, still grasping the headboard as he had been told, aching with the need to be ravished. He clamped his teeth on his lower lip, stifling his cry as Qui-Gon started to press the head of his thick hardness into him without the aid of oil, his erection still partly slickened from his abortive coupling with the anonymous slave girl.

"Let me hear you!" Qui-Gon bit his calf fiercely, and Obi-Wan yelped from the bite, then uttered a strangled wail as Qui-Gon finished pushing inside him, physical pain mingling with the psychological ecstasy that comes from the end of unbearable tension.

"You are mine, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon's voice rasped, his eyes glittering down at his padawan with a mixture of pain, lust, and love. Obi-Wan thrashed helplessly, impaled. "My padawan, my slave ...." Qui-Gon pulled out and thrust again, hard, this time at an angle that sent an unexpected flare of pleasure lancing through Obi-Wan from inside himself.

"Yes!" Obi-Wan almost wept, trying and failing to twine his ankles behind Qui-Gon's neck. The angle was wrong for that, but Obi-Wan needed to draw him close, to urge the thrusts to resume, the friction of Qui-Gon's hard body against his erection maddening him. He rocked desperately, fastened to the headboard with bonds made only of Qui-Gon's will, and all the stronger for it.

Qui-Gon growled, his long hair falling about Obi-Wan's face and neck, curtaining them in a small enclosure together. He shoved again, harder and deeper.

Obi-Wan ignored the pain, focusing on Qui-Gon's hard wet mouth on his, opening his lips to accept his Master's tongue, greeting it eagerly with his own.

"Let go." Qui-Gon's hands released his thighs, and Obi-Wan pried his aching fingers from the headboard obediently as Qui-Gon rose to a kneeling position without disengaging from him, holding Obi-Wan's waist in the crook of a powerful arm, lifting Obi-Wan and letting him fall rhythmically, using his padawan's own weight to drive the building pleasure between them. Obi-Wan arched back, his braid trailing against the sheets behind his shoulder, his hands clutching Qui-Gon's flexed biceps, feeling the hard muscles roll beneath his palms as Qui-Gon labored to move him and yet restrain himself simultaneously, struggling to prolong the moment of Obi-Wan's willing slave-rape. But he could sense that Obi-Wan was also on the edge, the friction of the movement pushing him to succumb to climax.

"Wait!" Qui-Gon growled. "Not until I say!"

Obi-Wan nodded, belly tensing, accepting another thrust, struggling to dissipate the tension coiling deep in his loins. Then all tension was suddenly gone as Qui-Gon withdrew fully from his body. Obi-Wan uttered a disappointed moan and would have spoken, but his protest turned into a yelp of pain as Qui-Gon gripped his upper arm fiercely and with one lightning-swift motion neatly flipped him over onto his belly. Qui-Gon knelt between his padawan's legs, lifting Obi-Wan's hips and dragging the young man up and back to rest on his thighs. Gritting his teeth against the resistance of Obi-Wan's body, he spread him without finesse or care and entered him. His hands caught beneath Obi-Wan's hips briefly before moving to his shoulders, bowing the proud back as he began to thrust in earnest, spreading his knees so that there would be no friction on Obi-Wan's penis.

Obi-Wan gasped, a sound of real pain falling from his lips, but caught the headboard again, helping to add resistance to his Master's quick motions, enabling Qui-Gon to free a hand to skim over his arched back and forward, to his straining belly, and finally down to the nest of curls and the straining erection that waited for its Master's permission to expend its passion and expire.

Qui-Gon's huge hand enclosed him like the warm, tight sheath of a woman might, and Obi-Wan jerked, desperate to obey by waiting, clinging by his fingernails to control as Qui-Gon stroked him once, twice, and again, in time with the jerking of his hips, sagging forward over his padawan's back until the weight of his body began to press Obi-Wan into the mattress. "Now," Qui-Gon breathed in his ear, and Obi-Wan came, his shout of relief echoed by his Master's deep-throated roar as they succumbed to climax together. Qui-Gon's full weight fell on Obi-Wan's back, his lips nuzzling Obi-Wan's nape and his shoulders with a weary, sated hunger.

Still twined together, they quickly fell into the dark and dreamless oblivion of exhausted sleep.

**Part 3 -- Acceptance**

Qui-Gon refused to open his eyes. It was morning, and the day had to be faced, but not yet. Not yet. Force, what had he done? He felt his throat closing with shame.

Obi-Wan was entangled with him, wrapped about him, knee between his Master's legs, chest half-over Qui-Gon's, fingers tangled in his hair. He could feel the weight of the padawan braid flung across his chest as though it were a lead-lined conduit. Obi-Wan's breath warmed his ear, and his lips nuzzled against his beard as he mumbled in his sleep. It sounded like his name, little though Qui-Gon deserved that.

It was not only that he'd had transgressed a strict point in the Jedi Code by having sex with his padawan learner; Obi-Wan had made it clear he wanted that from Qui-Gon, at least -- but the way it had happened was unacceptable to the Jedi Master. He'd released the animal inside himself, abandoned his control. It was a thing that rarely happened to him normally, but on this mission he had constantly felt himself riding that ragged edge as he was forced to cope with the expectations Riadan culture held for himself and for Obi-Wan. He had spent so long denying his feelings for his padawan that he was unable to cope with them when they surfaced. His feelings had jeopardized not only their training relationship, but also their mission ... and last night, he had let himself cross beyond the point of no return for both. Disaster.

His apprentice stirred a little more, waking, and Qui-Gon dropped into a subterfuge of slow and easy breathing, emptying his mind in order to fake sleep. He needed another few minutes to himself before he could face Obi-Wan and observe the effects of what he had done both to them and to their training bond.

Obi-Wan continued to awaken. It was a process that involved much sighing and nuzzling. As the last dregs of dreaming faded from his mind, Obi-Wan began sleepily running his fingers over Qui-Gon's chest, slowly mapping the terrain of smooth skin, fading scars, and rough hair he found there. His touch was light, soothing, and appreciative. It bore no residue of resentment, uncertainty, or malice in spite of what he'd been through in the past two days ... two days that seemed to Qui-Gon as though they had taken months to pass.

Obi-Wan's diffident fingers eventually trickled down his belly and, after a savoring pause, took him up softly and began to study him with loving pressure. Qui-Gon suffered the pleasurable examination guiltily, wondering if he would be allowed to continue in his pretense of sleep.

His body responded, of course, to Obi-Wan's manipulation, his penis coming erect slowly. Obi-Wan smiled against his skin, and moved to brush a kiss against Qui-Gon's cheek. "I love you, Master," Obi-Wan whispered huskily into what Qui-Gon knew he assumed was a sleeping ear.

In spite of their strong bond of respect and trust, those words had never been exchanged between them before this mission. They dropped into Qui-Gon like a stone into a pond, sinking to his core, spreading ripples of shame throughout his body. Obi-Wan had said them before, during the beating when Qui-Gon had been so preoccupied by his own anguish that he couldn't take the time to ponder them -- he'd had to ignore them, to keep his sanity -- but now ... to hear them spoken while lying abed, bodies entwined in the morning aftermath of rough, frenzied sex, Obi-Wan half-draped over his Master, unaware that Qui-Gon might be awake and listening ... they resounded with simple, poignant sincerity.

His apprentice loved him. Qui-Gon felt anguish spike his heart. He had badly failed Obi-Wan as a Master by permitting them to undertake this mission with his padawan so ill-prepared, by collaring him, by permitting his tender young body to be displayed and touched publicly, by forgetting to feed him. But even after all that, even after Qui-Gon himself had beaten Obi-Wan and taken him brutally, the only things Obi-Wan offered were his deep, abiding trust and self-effacing love, and the bright, scintillating gift of himself. How long had that been there, waiting, only to arise now when they had no leisure to come to terms with it, when the tension its demands exerted on Qui-Gon promised to destroy both their mission and their training bond?

His padawan was moving now, considerately half-levitating over Qui-Gon in order to leave the bed without waking him. He heard Obi-Wan pad into the 'fresher, heard the door click shut behind him.

He had several minutes to compose himself, to find the words that must be said to his padawan. To try to become again what he had given up his right to be the previous evening. To give Obi-wan the support he had to have to survive this intact ... or at least salvageable.

*****

Obi-Wan stood quietly before the mirror in the small room, carefully examining his body, even turning his back to survey the fading welts from the lash that had been applied to him. Qui-Gon had been too concerned with Obi-Wan's pain; if there were no marks on him today, Corm would surely notice that something was amiss.

But Obi-Wan was marked, and not merely upon his back. Wondering fingers rose to his throat, traced the dark print of teeth that lay there. On his upper arm and his hip were ten wide-splayed bruises, the exact size and shape of Qui-Gon's broad fingers. His lips were swollen, and there were miscellaneous bites, bruises, and tender red and pale purple patches scattered over his skin that he could not quite remember receiving. He had not been taken so much as he had simply been ... devoured. Even his thighs and calves had not escaped the inadvertent prints of Qui-Gon's strong hands and mouth. And he was sore elsewhere also, though it did not show so readily as the other marks, his body stretched and tender from accommodating his Master's rough entry.

He could read his body now, like a book that detailed the intimate secrets of Qui-Gon's desire for him, Qui-Gon's pleasure in him. The marks on his flesh were a calligraphy of lust that Qui-Gon had carefully inscribed onto him, the only recorded evidence of what had happened between himself and his Master.

He found that he loved looking at the visible results of Qui-Gon's loving on his flesh, and he touched a bite mark with trembling fingers. Its slight pain was an echo of pleasure, an echo of possession. It was a reminder that he was needed, and had been taken. It proved, in some subtle and disturbing way, that Qui-Gon valued him sexually, that his Master had wanted him so much that he had thrown everything aside and simply let himself take what Obi-Wan offered.

Obi-Wan realized that he never wanted these marks to fade from his body. He wanted them, needed them, to prove that he was desired, to prove that he had pierced that stolid, aloof barrier that had almost always stood between himself and Qui-Gon Jinn, since the earliest days of his near-thwarted apprenticeship to the Jedi Master. It had been years before Obi-Wan understood that Qui-Gon actually did truly want Obi-Wan as his apprentice, that he was not training him merely out of some measure of expedience or pity. And that understanding, when it arrived, had been purely intellectual, not emotional.

This ... this was something else entirely, and while it was not precisely the sort of emotional bond Obi-Wan had hoped for, it made him realize how thirsty his spirit was for indisputable confirmation that a deep, mutual emotional connection of some kind existed between himself and Qui-Gon. And now that that evidence existed ... he felt almost inordinate pride in the proofs of their lust manifested on him.

Obi-Wan swallowed, caught suddenly by the incongruity of the vast, terrible craving to be loved that was revealed at the core of his soul. It was terrifying, alien, insatiable, and its passion and need was a complete contradiction to his training in independence and to the Jedi Code, which decreed that a Jedi should feel peace and serenity instead of passion. He suddenly needed anchoring in his own true identity, and he knew of only one place to turn in hopes of finding it.

*****

"Master, I'm frightened." Obi-Wan emerged from the 'fresher cubicle still unwashed. Qui-Gon opened his eyes and looked at his student, sensing the unguarded truth and depth of the statement.

He chose his words with care, knowing Obi-Wan needed him badly, needed the reassurance he had not provided the previous night. Needed to know himself and Qui-Gon, needed to know that he had lost neither. "Obi-Wan ... my padawan. Our focus determines our reality," Qui-Gon said gently, with no hint of the reprimand that had so often accompanied such words. "Our focus is changing as we adapt to the demands of this culture, and we each feel it. But it does not eliminate the larger picture." He rose from the bed, wrapping a sheet about his loins, bringing one to drape around Obi-Wan's shoulders. His apprentice accepted it gratefully, catching it over his arms and folding them across his body.

"We must learn this world, come to know its ways," Qui-Gon continued. "We must live in the moment, accepting what we find there in others and ourselves, allowing the Force to guide us. It will guide us safely home again," Qui-Gon promised. "Trust the Force."

And don't trust me.

He could see that his unspoken words went unheard. Obi-Wan was relaxing, visibly immersing himself in the familiar comfort of Qui-Gon's calm teachings. "We were chosen for this because of the bond of trust that lies between us, Obi-Wan." Qui-Gon spoke softly, switching briefly into the soft lilting language of his homeworld. "As Jedi, we are trained to survive adversity, and in surviving, be strengthened and deepened by it." Qui-Gon picked up Obi-Wan's padawan braid, running his fingers down its glossy length, drawing Obi-Wan's eyes to it as well, the visible reminder of the pledges and beliefs that united them. "We are Jedi."

"Yes, Master," Obi-Wan agreed, confidence flowing into him visibly. "And we are also human beings."

Qui-Gon looked down at his student for a long moment. "Yes," he acquiesced at last, very softly. "And you are a very beautiful one, Obi-Wan Kenobi."

Obi-Wan's eyes went round with surprise, the words sinking deeply into him, his expression growing radiant as his fear subsided, transmuted to shy wonder. "Thank you, Master," he whispered, his smile lighting his face with a beauty that Qui-Gon found almost beyond his ability to bear.

After the intimacy they had shared, Qui-Gon could not resist Obi-Wan's joy. "My padawan, no matter what may happen on this mission, know that I --"

The door chimed and Qui-Gon cursed, the moment shattered beyond recall. The same girl who had delivered Corm's note the previous evening now brought breakfast. Oh, yes. She had fine timing. Qui-Gon sighed.

Obi-Wan was hurrying to accept the tray, trying to rush her out of the room, but she was not alone. Three other slaves, two male, flowed in through the open door behind her to clean and change the bed linens. Obi-Wan cast a single chagrined glance at Qui-Gon as he moved to help them with the heavy mattress.

Obi-Wan threw his back into the work, but his mind was entirely preoccupied. What had Qui-Gon begun to say to him? Would he continue his words when they were alone again? There was so much Obi-Wan needed to know, so many things that needed to be said between them, but were prevented by the surveillance -- reversion to another language was a dangerous gambit that could not often be repeated. Obi-Wan understood the necessity to be circumspect and embraced it, but not knowing what the slaves had interrupted was killing him. Qui-Gon's eyes had been so deep, his expression so gentle, his voice husky with unaccustomed emotion ... Obi-Wan followed his Master with his eyes as Qui-Gon sat down to breakfast and was dismayed to see the mantle of Jedi aloofness re-descending over Qui-Gon Jinn.

He could not help himself, but tried to recapture the lost moment anyway after the slaves finally bustled out laughing amongst themselves. "Master, you were speaking." Obi-Wan moved to Qui-Gon's side, taking up a piece of bread that Qui-Gon had set aside for part of his breakfast.

"Oh. Yes," Qui-Gon nodded, but the warmth in his eyes had retreated once again behind the walls of Jedi composure. "You should know," Qui-Gon paused, "that I will protect you, my padawan. Now, and always." He almost choked at his own evasion, but he could not. Could not let himself. The truth would only hurt Obi-Wan more, in the long run.

"Yes, Master. I am grateful." Obi-Wan bowed his head and finished his breakfast, pleased with Qui-Gon's veiled reassurance but still disappointed that he had not heard the words that welled originally from the apparent fullness of Qui-Gon's heart.

So many things there were that needed to be said, and heard, between them now ... he thought of the way Qui-Gon had touched him the previous night, his hand trailing unconsciously over the bite on his neck, the flicker of pain enhancing the moment of memory. Qui-Gon had wanted and taken him. Qui-Gon thought he was beautiful. He basked in that knowledge, letting the sheet slip from his shoulders, suddenly proud of his nude body, and more than willing to permit Qui-Gon to see it.

Qui-Gon wanted his beauty, and the demands of this mission had brought them to such a pass of emotional tension that he had claimed it -- and yet Obi-Wan was still his Master's padawan, he was still Jedi. Qui-Gon had reassured him of that, subtly but strongly. It would be there, waiting for them both, when they could withdraw themselves from the powerful influence of this culture and the roles thrust on them within it.

Perhaps this thing that was happening between them would open up their relationship as part of the strengthening and deepening process Qui-Gon had implied would occur after they returned to Coruscant.

The thought put happy energy into Obi-Wan's steps as he finished breakfast and prepared his Master's clothing for their arrival on Ria. When there was nothing left to be done, he bathed himself, singing idly, secure in himself once more, ready for anything that might come.

Emerging from the bathroom, he saw that Qui-Gon had received company while he was unaware. His Master held a roll of parchment that had been tied with a red silk scarf in one hand, and a mass of heavy golden chains trailed from the other, puddling on the floor. A slave girl stood by, admiring the older Jedi openly. Qui-Gon tossed Obi-Wan a look of concern. "Compliments of His Highness, Qal of Ria." Qui-Gon shook the chains slightly. "They are a gift for me, to be placed on you."

Obi-Wan nodded, stepping forward with an eagerness he could not deny. He longed for Qui-Gon's touch, hoping that the previous night's events had not merely been a regretted lapse of control, and that more lovemaking would occur between them again, preferably soon and frequently. He would take any touch that he could get, however, even one that was not sensual.

Qui-Gon shook out the musical mass of links, confused, and turned a questioning eye on the girl. She stepped forward at his small gesture, taking up the chains and separating them with quick skill. "It is a sirik," she explained, her voice sultry. "Decorative chains, for a favored dancer."

There were four manacles, two anklets and two wristlets, joined by a circle of chain and fastened to a golden collar upon which Qui-Gon's name had been inscribed. The uppermost chain ran through a loop in that collar, and two more lengths of chain fastened the loop to the anklets.

Qui-Gon's eyebrows rose. The chains, laid out on a flat surface, would have formed a top-heavy trapezoid with a manacle at each corner, the collar top and center, and an inverted V within. But on a body, they would drape gracefully, whispering with every motion, subtly shortening the strides of walking and also restricting the distance both arms could reach at once, though the slide of chain through the loop at the throat would allow either arm to be fully extended if the other followed it.

The chains were light but strong, fashioned of some alloy Qui-Gon didn't immediately recognize. He reached into his pocket for the metal key he carried and unlocked Obi-Wan's original collar, removing it. Obi-Wan rubbed his throat experimentally, wincing a little, and the slave girl brought a damp cloth for him to wash himself. Qui-Gon took it from her and did the job himself, giving Obi-Wan time to soothe his neck muscles. He also ensured that the key would open the lock before clasping the new bond onto his padawan. Then he picked up one of the wrist manacles and put it on Obi-Wan's arm, watching his student closely for signs of distress.

There were none. Instead, Qui-Gon observed the exact opposite. His padawan seemed to relax as the chains were locked onto his body, and Qui-Gon was startled at the growing eroticism in Obi-Wan's posture and expression. It was not merely Qui-Gon's perceptions changing as the chains were added; Obi-Wan's body actually moved. He held himself more sensually with the addition of each manacle until all four limbs were restrained.

Obi-Wan submitted, his eyes sultry, his head slightly tilted to one side. He stood with his weight on one foot, seeming poised to dance, feeling the weight of Qui-Gon's chains on him ... and quite obviously, enjoying the sensation.

"You wear your chains well," Qui-Gon told Obi-Wan, a thick lump in his throat. He stuffed the red silk scarf in his pocket. He had not missed the symbolism or the implicit taunt of Corm's portion of the gift, but he would not make use of it no matter how accurate it might be now. He wrapped the white scarf around Obi-Wan's new collar instead, to protect him from the touch of others.

Obi-Wan looked up at his Master through his thick red-gold lashes, the padawan's mouth curling in a truly wicked smile that set Qui-Gon's heart racing.

The moment did not make its demands solely of Obi-Wan.

Qui-Gon reached up, cradling Obi-Wan's jaw in his palm, sliding his thumb over his padawan's lips. Obi-Wan kissed at it gently, his eyes closing, and reached to catch his Master's arm, the metallic rustle of the chain offsetting his graceful motion. He nestled his face into Qui-Gon's palm, kissing it hotly, biting at Qui-Gon's long fingers. The Jedi Master exhaled a low sigh, feeling his desire stir, feeling the strength of his body's longing for the energy of another union with Obi-Wan.

"Master Jinn." The slave courier knelt, addressing Qui-Gon. "I was instructed to tell you that King Ahar requests your presence alone for the hour before landfall."

Tearing himself away by brute force with a mingling of relief and regret, Qui-Gon did not let himself pause for a regretful look back at his enslaved padawan.

*****

Leaving Obi-Wan's presence was too difficult. He trusted his apprentice's abilities, but in this situation Obi-Wan was largely limited to mental domination as both a defensive and offensive strategy. It was not good to rely heavily upon such techniques, though Qui-Gon had often found himself forced to do so. They could all too often fail or be thwarted.

Worse, he hated leaving Obi-Wan knowing that he had not filled all the needs his padawan had for his support. He was desperately concerned that he had harmed Obi-Wan's training irrevocably by giving in to the madness of having him, leaving the lad no option but to give his body in the night, when they were alone together, when they should have been Jedi and padawan, not Master and slave. His fears had increased exponentially at the way Obi-Wan had stood this morning in sirik, aware of Qui-Gon's eyes on him, radiating pure, submissive sex .... Qui-Gon had indeed damaged his padawan, taken and twisted his innocence, made him a corrupt, wanton thing wanting only to be used.

Used by him.

Ahar was waiting for him in an anteroom near the feasting chamber, a silver goblet of wine in hand and another awaiting the Jedi Master on the table. "Ambassador Qui-Gon," he greeted, his tone amiable. "I hope you were pleased with my son's gift." For once, the curved pipe was not in his fist, though it lay well within reach.

"The sirik is a beautiful thing," Qui-Gon admitted. "I shall thank your son at my earliest opportunity."

Ahar looked at Qui-Gon, gauging the Jedi's sincerity. "Put it on your slave, Qui-Gon Jinn. Watch him in it. He will be happy, knowing that he wears your chains for you beautifully."

"As you say, your Majesty."

Ahar shifted, eyes wandering over the pipe restlessly. "My son would be best thanked by the gift of your slave for a night," he suggested. "You used one of his girls at the welcoming feast, and again last night. It is a courtesy among us to repay such favors in kind."

Qui-Gon blinked, his heart sinking. "I shall consider it carefully, Your Majesty." And I'll agree to it on the day I win the Miss Republic Pageant.

"The King is right about your slave, Ambassador Jinn." Of course, Corm strolled in, right on cue, not even bothering to hide that he had been eavesdropping. Qui-Gon's mouth tightened sourly.

"The happiness of a slave is a beautiful thing," Corm protested cordially. "A slave learns self-esteem through ownership, Qui-Gon. He, or she, is not merely a beast of burden, but a beautiful and beloved possession. Well-mastered, a slave learns to be fully free in sensuality. Your ... padawan ..." Corm used the unfamiliar word deliberately, "will be happier than you have ever known him, now that you have taken him."

As though anyone could be happy under the threat of the lash. Qui-Gon tried to stifle annoyance, forcing himself to nod. In a sense, Obi-Wan might be happy; certainly he had enjoyed the physical pleasures of intercourse. But Obi-Wan ... Obi-Wan was not a slave. Or rather, he should not become one ....

Corm continued, trampling Qui-Gon's thoughts. "Qal is indeed quite smitten with your slave -- your padawan, you call him? A lovely word for a beautiful boy." His smirk was positively smug.

Yet more insolence -- Qui-Gon had only used that word inside the confines of his quarters with Obi-Wan. He let his eyes narrow at Corm. He far preferred Qal's attentions to Obi-Wan to Corm's. At least Qal had demonstrated concern for the padawan's well-being and had respected his body.

Even as Qui-Gon thought it, the young Prince entered the room. Catching three sets of eyes swiveling toward him at once, he sensed that he had been the topic of conversation and flushed slightly.

"I trust your slave is recovering well." Qal spoke to Qui-Gon with dignity, assuming his position in the group.

"He is well." Qui-Gon nodded politely. "And we are most appreciative of your generosity, Your Highness."

"I hope soon to see him wear the sirik." Qal looked relieved. "It well befits his grace."

Qui-Gon gave a low bow, and Qal seemed to regain some confidence, reaching into his satchel and withdrawing a sheaf of papers left from their talks of the previous day. "There are a variety of welcoming ceremonies planned to greet you, Ambassador. I will read through them so that you may be prepared."

"That would be a kindness." Qui-Gon inclined his head and took a seat gracefully.

*****

Qui-Gon was often tempted to curse Corm over the next few days. On Ria, Obi-Wan seemed to blossom with exuberant joy, as the Priest had predicted. Rather than keep his padawan kneeling at his side during interminable diplomatic events, talks, and feasts, Qui-Gon let him run at large to discover what he could of Riadan culture. His padawan swiftly became popular among the other slaves, and the fluttering bit of white at his throat, while no longer an accurate statement of his sexual condition, protected him more or less from the Masters. Qui-Gon continually reminded himself that Obi-Wan was as capable of destroying carnal desire with a thought as he was of inspiring it. He was fairly unlikely to suffer rape, and so Qui-Gon resigned himself to the time apart from his apprentice with reluctant grace, though he often chafed at the lengthy formal interactions and wished that he knew exactly where Obi-Wan might be.

As the days passed, Qui-Gon tried to relax without growing complacent. His padawan had begun to fit smoothly into palace life, and he watched as Obi-Wan gradually assumed more independent duties, coming to know the wide open-air marketplaces and narrow alleys of the city, the shortcuts and the merchants. He was entrusted to go out with his wrists bound, bearing coins in his mouth, to purchase bread and meats with the other slaves, returning them to Ahar's palace slung around his neck in a bag. Whether by day in iron collar or by night wearing the golden chains of Qal's sirik, Obi-Wan seemed to be everywhere and nowhere at once, moving so agilely he seemed always to dance.

And so the days passed, rudimentary agreements beginning to fall into place against the hoped-for day when the Republic might decide to permit the Riadans their trading privileges. Qui-Gon was conscious of his own skill in working out the involved diplomatic language, the necessary trappings of political intercourse. He was gratified by his ability to pacify the delegates and factions, but it felt hollow without the knowledge that his hard work would certainly be useful in the future.

He watched out of the corner of his eye as his padawan helped serve Qal with infinite courtesy and grace, obviously basking in the sensation of the Prince's warm brown eyes upon him. Obi-Wan was the target of many such stares wherever he went, and he often seemed almost feline as he arched and preened under the unspoken praise nearly as unabashedly as the bred slaves that surrounded him. Qal spoke softly to Obi-Wan and was rewarded with a shy smile. The Prince reached out and stroked a finger lightly up the padawan's arm. Qui-Gon's teeth gritted; his padawan merely savored the attention, purring a little, almost catlike, aware of the attraction he held over the young Riadan man. He did not flinch away, as he had done from Corm. Instead, he preened.

Qui-Gon hooded his eyes, pretending to concentrate on his meal, although he could barely choke down another bite. Qal was a diplomat and an ally. By the standards of his culture, he had a right to Obi-Wan's company, and more. It was unreasonable that Qui-Gon could not stop his teeth from grinding.

He hadn't so much as kissed Obi-Wan since the night his lust had overtaken him, though he'd thought on more than one occasion that he might have to chain the lad to the ring at the bottom of his couch if he wanted to avoid his padawan's kisses and that which would inevitably follow them. He played a subtler game now to avoid Obi-Wan's persistent attempts at seduction, trying to ensure that his padawan would be utterly exhausted at the end of each day of duties, ready to fall into dreamless slumber as soon as his head touched the pillow.

Or failing that, Qui-Gon ensured that he was engaged late in the night, staying at endless receptions and feastings until even Obi-Wan's boundless energy faded. At the first sign of weariness, Qui-Gon would make his padawan drink a deep cup of strong wine and send him away to sleep, returning to their quarters perhaps an hour or two later and using all his stealth to slip into the single bed without waking the young man who slept there, nude, awaiting him.

It was the mornings that were worst. It was pure torment waking to feel Obi-Wan's sturdy erection nudging his backside, or worse, the young man's silky lips wandering worshipfully over his neck and back. Such things were almost more than Qui-Gon could bear. He would turn, making distance between them, and push Obi-Wan away with a single shake of his head and a finger on the boy's lips, commanding silence. Obi-Wan would press his lips forward and kiss that finger sadly. It was like ripping his own heart from his chest to leave the bed then, but Qui-Gon always did.

Padawan, not paramour, he would remind himself stubbornly, setting the shower in the 'fresher as many degrees below body temperature as he could stand it.

And when he emerged, Obi-Wan would be kneeling, awaiting his instructions for the day, waiting to be fed rather than eating himself, though Qui-Gon had given him permission to do so. Qui-Gon would endure the sweet torment of his padawan's lips and tongue, though he swore they grew hotter and more liquid every day, more like warm melted honey. He would endure, and he would eat, and then he would set Obi-Wan at liberty to do communal serving tasks as the Palace Slavemaster commanded, cautioning him always to behave well. And so Obi-Wan did. Up to a point.

To everyone but his own Master, Obi-Wan's conduct seemed flawless. But to Qui-Gon .... Obi-Wan's sultry looks and touches were to be expected, but Qui-Gon found himself grinding his teeth when Obi-Wan flirted or let his hips sway for the benefit of another, especially Qal.

Qui-Gon always called him to heel for it, but the effects of his sharp words lasted only minutes. The Jedi Master began to understand that more would be required, but he resisted, ignoring Obi-Wan as completely as possible, hoping his padawan would give up. But he knew that was not to be.

"I beg your favor, my Master." Qui-Gon blinked. Obi-Wan had materialized noiselessly to kneel before him.

"Yes?" Qui-Gon felt a pang of apprehension, but hid it behind smooth serenity.

"Master Qal requests the favor of my services for the evening." Obi-Wan raised a perfectly bland face to Qui-Gon.

Qui-Gon hesitated. He had hoped to avoid this confrontation, but Obi-Wan's flirting had pressed it to its crisis. He was vaguely aware of Corm's ears pricking up, and of Qal's silent, steady regard. Well. Obi-Wan could take care of himself, could he not? In private, his padawan could twist the Riadan's mind into knots if he wanted. He could easily make the man believe they had slept together when they had not, which was probably what he intended.

Wasn't it? Was this done for the sake of their mission ... or was it for his padawan's own pleasure?

Jealousy flared deep in Qui-Gon, and he saw Obi-Wan reading it in his eyes, sensed a flicker of triumph in his padawan's aura. He felt anger start to form, and crushed the flare of his own emotions to steely indifference. If Obi-Wan actually wanted to go with Qal, that was his own affair. He was not, after all, actually Qui-Gon's slave, the Jedi Master reasoned distantly. And more, what right did Qui-Gon have to deny Obi-Wan in his desire to join with another, when Qui-Gon would not accept the young man's advances himself?

"Of course he has them if he wishes." Qui-Gon flicked his fingers in irritable dismissal. "Go, and trouble me no more until the morning."

"Thank you, Master." Obi-Wan bowed and hurried back to Qal's side, eagerness apparent in his every motion.

The Jedi took a bitter sip of his wine, keeping his eyes hooded. A solemn promise to himself, broken that simply. His padawan was now publicly in the arms of another man. Qal had received him tenderly, stroking the ridge of his cheekbone as Qui-Gon longed to do himself. The Riadan bent to Obi-Wan's mouth gently, and his padawan returned the kiss, chained limbs rising gracefully into an embrace.

Qui-Gon felt himself harden at the spectacle -- with lust, and with fury. Abruptly he rose, and decorum be damned. "With your Majesty's kind indulgence, I shall retire," he announced, bowing before Ahar.

"Certainly, Ambassador Jinn," the King exhaled a long slow puff of smoke. "I trust you are well."

"Perfectly," Qui-Gon managed to sound polite. "The negotiations will begin early. It is best to be rested." He turned in a swirl of cloak and left the room, his peripheral vision seared by the vision of Qal's hand sliding slowly up Obi-Wan's smooth-muscled flank.

*****

Obi-Wan was keenly conscious of Qui-Gon's eyes and of his rapid exit. He sighed a little. Perhaps it was best -- he was not fully sure his Master understood what he was up to, and there was no way to explain. Qal was fully absorbed in him, the Prince's hands and mouth gentle. When Qui-Gon had left, Obi-Wan let himself relax a little, accepting the kisses with more grace. They were not his Master's, but they were sweet and pleasant, and Qal was young and strong, well-built. Kind.

"Let us go to my rooms, Obi-Wan," Qal suggested. Obi-Wan nodded acquiescence and rose. He had noted that the Prince did not seem to care for the public orgies his father and Corm held so dear, and had more than half-expected to be led away as he now was.

The Prince smiled at him, reassuring, as they entered his quarters. They were smaller than Obi-Wan's and Qui-Gon's, the padawan noted. Qal surely stood low on the ladder of power.

"I know you are new to your slavery, Obi-Wan, and I do not want you to fear that I would hurt or force you," Qal said simply. "Have no fear. While you are at my command, no harm will come to you."

"I thank you, Master." Obi-Wan did not like to use the term with anyone but Qui-Gon, and it must have showed, because Qal smiled very faintly, his eyes a little sad.

"Qal for tonight, Obi-Wan." The Prince sighed. "Let there be trust between us."

"Yes, Qal." Obi-Wan remained obedient.

"You love your Master," Qal mused. "It shines in your eyes." Again, the Prince seemed rueful, and Obi-Wan bent his head.

"Yes, Qal." The young Jedi replied simply, the words heartfelt.

The Prince nodded, drawing a deep breath, obviously forcing himself to the point of resolve. "I asked you to come here not so that I might use you as a slave, though I would be pleased if you are willing, but so that I might apologize for the hard use you have endured while you have been among us," Qal explained. "I regret your treatment at the hands of the High Priest. If it were within my power as it should be, I would have intervened, spared you that pain. But I could not."

"I know you tried," Obi-Wan murmured. "I am grateful."

Qal crossed the room slowly, moving behind Obi-Wan to survey his back. "You heal quickly and well," he commented. A mirror across the room reflected his hand, hovering over the fading marks of Qui-Gon's mouth on Obi-Wan's throat. He withdrew it without touching Obi-Wan, though.

"Thank you, Qal," Obi-Wan spoke softly. He felt deep sympathy for the thwarted desire of the Riadan Prince. He had felt similar pangs himself very frequently in the past days.

"Did your Master see to it that you received medical care?" The Riadan Prince tried to make the question seem offhand, and failed.

"He cared for me with his own hands," Obi-Wan murmured. "He is a kind man, and a good Master."

The Riadan nodded, not fully convinced, but let the issue pass. He turned from Obi-Wan, moving over to a crowded workbench in the corner. Obi-Wan watched with interest, trying to identify the primitive components without much success. Qal sighed, picking up a handful of wires attached to a small metal box. "I begin to wonder if it was wise for me to build my transmitter to contact offworlders," he admitted. "Coruscant was quite different from what I had expected." He set the device aside, looking back to Obi-Wan. "They don't have slaves at all in the Republic, do they?"

Obi-Wan felt his nerves ratchet up a notch. "There are some," he said. "But it is not usual."

Qal nodded without surprise. "You are not a slave, then."

Obi-Wan lifted his chin, displaying his collar. "Qui-Gon Jinn owns me," he said firmly. "I am his, without reservation."

"I can see that." Qal's eyes were pained. "Would that you were mine, or that I had anyone, slave or free, who loved me so well."

"I am sorry," Obi-Wan breathed, sincerely regretting the Riadan's anguish.

Qal groaned, tortured by Obi-Wan's response. "What are you?" Qal breathed, stepping in front of Obi-Wan, his eyes tortured, lonely. "What are you, that you can do this to me, with only a look or word?"

The Prince leaned toward him, hesitant, his mouth trembling, and Obi-Wan mercifully leaned to meet him, letting his mouth fall open as their lips touched, gently guiding the Riadan toward the small, richly covered sleeping couch. He pressed Qal down, kneeling over him, breaking the sweetness of the kiss at last.

"Will you, Obi-Wan?" Qal's eyes shone.

The young padawan gathered the Force. "I already have." He passed his hand over the Riadan's eyes. "You gave me much pleasure." Qal mumbled the words, half-incoherently parroting Obi-Wan, and as always when he did this, the young Jedi felt a sharp pang of guilt. But the situation had been deteriorating; Qal had forced his hand. "And I have satisfied your desire." Obi-Wan finished the suggestion, releasing his hold on the Prince's mind.

Qal's tension immediately slackened, his eyes clouding and then warming to shine up at the padawan. "You have satisfied my desire," he sighed and shifted, lifting a hand to stroke Obi-Wan's cheek. "I thank you," he murmured huskily.

Obi-Wan leaned in and kissed him, then lay down at his side, spooning up against the confused Prince gently. "Talk to me, Qal," he requested softly. The last of his mind-touch had dissipated, but there was no need of more. "Tell me of Ria."

Qal sighed, snuggling his hips back into the crook of Obi-Wan's body. "My mother was a pleasure slave," he began, "but I was the only heir my father produced, so he claimed me and raised me as a noble. They were good days. Maru was still High Priest of the Riadan Temple, and all seemed well in Agus Ria. Until he died, when I was only sixteen."

Obi-Wan nodded, softly stroking a soothing design on Qal's chest with his fingertips. The Prince arched and sighed, snuggling a bit closer to Obi-Wan. "Corm is not a good man," he said suddenly. "Do not judge all Riadans by him, Obi-Wan Kenobi."

"I do not," Obi-Wan assured him softly. "But if I judged them by yourself, might I not be guilty of making a similar error on the side of goodness?"

Qal turned over, eyes locking to the young Jedi's. "You are too thoughtful for a slave, Obi-Wan." He reached and traced the padawan's lips with his fingertip, and Obi-Wan gently bit the seeking digit and released it.

"Tell me of your father, Qal," Obi-Wan murmured softly. Pillow talk. The Riadan would be much more open to his soft probes now, in the illusion of intimacy they shared.

The Prince sighed. "I never knew my mother," he admitted. "She was sold after my birth. I was raised and trained here, in the palace. Ahar was a strong King then ...." Again, pain in the fine voice. "As I hoped to be." Qal laughed bitterly. "Then I, like my mother, fell from favor. Unfortunately, my father could not sell me."

"I'm sure he didn't want to." Obi-Wan kissed Qal's forehead lightly.

"He wants to do anything Corm says," Qal laughed bitterly. "Ever since he started smoking Corm's special bitterroot ...." The Prince halted himself suddenly, sobered. "I should not have said that, Obi-Wan."

"'Let there be trust between us,'" Obi-Wan quoted him softly. "I shall not betray you to Corm."

Qal's eyes softened and he leaned in to claim a kiss, his arousal stirring once more in spite of Obi-Wan's earlier mind touch. The Jedi sighed with regret, directing the Prince's lips to his throat. That was an end to his pursuit of information. "Sleep, Qal," he murmured, and the Riadan's breath whispered against his throat as he sagged into slumber. Obi-Wan kissed the Prince's forehead again softly and lay awake for a long while, thinking.

*****

Morning was a long time in coming.

The click and creak of the door to his quarters did not awaken Qui-Gon; he had lain without sleep for most of the night. It did not mend matters that the faint brush of personality against his own now was a slave girl's, and not his padawan's. The sleeping couch felt curiously cold and empty without Obi-Wan in it at his side.

Qui-Gon had little interest in breakfast, and he drank his juice automatically but left the fruit and bread untouched. Obi-Wan still made no appearance. At last it became clear that he would not have the furtive, guilty pleasure of feeding his padawan from his hand this morning. Obi-Wan was probably still abed. With Qal.

The Jedi Master tried to banish the image, but it was too late. Sourly he rose and disposed of the remains of his meal. There was a day's routine to be completed, with or without Obi-Wan at his side.

He dressed himself and combed his hair quickly, then stalked down the hall to the main audience chamber, where the morning of meetings was to begin.

Obi-Wan knelt there, at Qal's side. He had been given a loincloth to wear and a narrow mantle of long gold cloth, glittering with a carefully sewn pattern of jewels and seed pearls. He had wrapped it around his shoulders and arms, to protect himself from the morning's chill. The Prince fondled Qui-Gon's padawan absently as he wrote, his arm sliding over Obi-Wan's shoulders so that he could twine his fingers in the young man's long braid. Obi-Wan bent his head against the Prince's casually. There was no longer any real separation of personal space between them, as was to be expected of lovers.

Qui-Gon glided in silently, hiding his expression under his deep cowl. He took a seat as far from Qal as was diplomatically possible given the U-shaped table of sturdy marble. Obi-Wan was intently watching what the Riadan inscribed on the parchment, leaning close over the Prince's leg, lips slightly parted in concentration. The Prince was murmuring softly to Obi-Wan, but he fell silent as he felt the pressure of the Jedi Master's regard.

"Return to your Master, Obi-Wan," he directed softly, and the padawan flinched, startled that Qui-Gon had entered without him sensing it. Obi-Wan rose quickly, beginning to slide his shoulders from the richly decorated cloth, but Qal stopped him with a hand on his wrist. "Keep it, if he permits you." The Prince smiled and lifted Obi-Wan's hand, kissing the center of its palm gently.

Obi-Wan smiled his gratitude, leaning into a deep bow, and quickly turned, hurrying around the open bottom of the table to assume his place at Qui-Gon's side.

"Good morning, my Master," Obi-Wan murmured, sinking to his knees next to Qui-Gon's chair.

"I trust you had a pleasant night." Qui-Gon's words were wintry cold.

"Qal is very kind, Master." Obi-Wan's words were mild. "He was good to me."

And I am not? Rationally Qui-Gon knew his padawan meant no such thing, but the inescapable implication was that Obi-Wan had enjoyed his tumble in Qal's bed, something that Qui-Gon had vowed not to consent to do with his padawan again. He gritted his teeth, struggling with jealousy.

Obi-Wan felt the surge of his Master's anger, but he did not understand it. He'd only meant to assure Qui-Gon that he had not been harmed or forced, but the Jedi Master seemed determined to misinterpret his words, and so Obi-Wan fell silent, not offering more.

"Take off that wrap," Qui-Gon instructed sharply. "You are under my discipline again now."

"Yes, Master." Obi-Wan bent his head humbly. He was keenly aware of Qui-Gon's intense scrutiny as he slid the rich jeweled cloth from his arms, folding it carefully and placing it on the floor. "This as well, my Master?" His hands paused on the knot of the belt that held his loincloth.

"That as well." Qui-Gon brushed the question aside impatiently. Obi-Wan could feel his Master's eyes raking him, and suddenly he realized that Qui-Gon was examining him carefully for evidence of kisses or love bites. His Master, jealous?

Clearly it was so. Qui-Gon's eyes were hard, his expression closed. Obi-Wan felt a curious mix of guilt and exhilaration sweep through him. So. Qui-Gon was not as emotionally indifferent as he pretended to be. Obi-Wan felt himself shift slightly, his body responding to the sensual rush that accompanied the thought, his shoulders lifting, his posture becoming sultry, leaning sensually into Qui-Gon's thigh.

"You needn't try that with me, either," Qui-Gon hissed, leaning right into Obi-Wan's face, his voice pitched for his padawan's ears alone. He was no lonely, half-infatuated boy like Qal, to be won over effortlessly by Obi-Wan's sensuous, promiscuous wiles. "Do you think you are a cat in heat?" The Jedi Master's brows knit together thunderously.

"No, my Master," Obi-Wan whispered, flinching back. Jealousy? Perhaps, but he had not anticipated this uncharacteristic withering, cold anger. Gingerly he drew into himself, subtly folding his posture into an unassuming crouch. He was aware of Qal's startled, worried gaze, but did not dare to meet it.

*****

The day did not improve after that. Qui-Gon's temper was short and his commands curt and frequent. Whether Obi-Wan was bringing paper and quills or serving his Master's meal, it seemed he could do nothing right. After five hours of constant rebuke, he had actually begun to stumble and cringe as he scampered to do his Master's bidding. Qal's eyes had grown bright and hard as he watched, and Corm's mellow humor had increased tenfold.

They adjourned at last for the evening feast, Obi-Wan cautiously heeling his Master, just out of his range of vision. The meal was no better than the earlier part of the day, and in fact, it grew worse.

"Go into the kitchen and fetch more fruit." Qui-Gon let a stern frown creep between his brows. Obi-Wan had been clumsy serving Qui-Gon's wine, pouring hastily, forgetting to perform the obeisance the pouring ritual required, though he had done it for the others he served -- including Qal. It was a breach of respect that no native Riadan Master would permit to go unpunished.

As Qui-Gon sat, trying to ponder the best way that he could take Obi-Wan's punishment a crucial step forward in order to convince the Riadans to believe he had adequately chastened Obi-Wan, but without actually harming him, he was distracted suddenly by a slave girl approaching him and kneeling at his feet. She brought the fruit for which he had asked, bowing her head deeply and offering it in upraised hands.

Qui-Gon noticed nothing unusual and reached to accept the fruit, but Corm nudged his arm. "Her hair, Jedi."

Qui-Gon looked. Her hair was long and dark, one piece separated and tied in a loose loop at her cheek. She was familiar to him; he realized she was the slave he had taken and set aside on the night he gave in to his desire for Obi-Wan.

"She wears the bondage knot for you." Corm's voice was gleeful, and he reached to lift the lock of hair. "A sign of her surrender. She fears to speak, but wishes to be taken in the furs. She offers herself to you, begging your mercy." Qui-Gon gazed down at the girl with a sudden surge of pity, accepting a slice of fruit. He had served her ill, used her hard and left her without a word, and she sought him again?

She lifted her face to Qui-Gon, eyes shining with worship as she moved forward on her knees, her breasts bare, swaying gently. He swallowed. He was not immune to the charms of her beauty. Taking the tray from the slave girl, Qui-Gon set it aside. "Come here, my lovely one."

This, perhaps, would chasten Obi-Wan, give him the shock he needed to return to a more acceptable frame of mind. Qui-Gon did not let himself pause to consider the pettiness or the vengeance inherent in his act, justifying himself by remembering that he owed the girl an apology of sorts for his rough ways.

He gathered the slave into his lap, his hand sliding up to support her breast, his thumb stroking across her nipple, bringing it erect. She squirmed close, lifting her lush mouth to him, and he tasted it, feeling warmth begin to glow inside him. He'd been in a constant state of arousal, really, ever since permitting himself to taste the forbidden fruits of Obi-Wan's body. Now he could obtain release without guilt.

But he could sense the spike of his padawan's jealousy the moment Obi-Wan walked back into the room.

Obi-Wan approached, fairly shaking with anger. What was he here for, if not to play the role of the slave to his Master? He had been treated unfairly and harshly throughout the day; this intrusion was more than he could bear. Qui-Gon, after all, had commanded him to go with Qal, and Obi-Wan had barely let the Riadan touch him.

He set the tray aside, ignoring Corm's stare of intent interest. "I have brought what you asked, Master," Obi-Wan bit out, failing to sound either pleasant or obedient.

Qui-Gon lifted his head with deliberate, casual leisure and nodded. "Next time, see that you do not dally." Obi-Wan visibly swallowed his anger and bowed his head, then moved to Qui-Gon's shoulder.

He was ignored. He simmered for a moment, watching Qui-Gon stroke the girl from breast to hip, then he bent to his Master's neck, trying to distract him with teasing kisses.

Idly, Qui-Gon shoved him away, beginning to feel irritation of his own at his padawan's persistence. He began to feed the girl the fruit Obi-Wan had brought, and she licked his hands eagerly, snuggling close to his body.

Obi-Wan recovered his balance, crouching on fingertips and toes. His eyes narrowed. A cat in heat? What exactly did Qui-Gon think he had in his lap? Without thinking, he reached out, touched raw power, channeled it delicately.

Qui-Gon felt the stirring, felt the girl move, felt her surprise as she was levered away from his body. He set her aside carefully.

"That's enough, padawan." His voice was deadly. Obi-Wan ignored him, instead making a miserable bid for his Master's now-empty lap, and received a lazy cuff that sent him sprawling. Raising himself to hands and knees, he began to return to Qui-Gon again, a stubborn light burning in his eyes that Qui-Gon knew all too well.

He would not give up.

Qui-Gon walled his conflicting emotions to steely silence, knowing what his role demanded. He rose and bound his apprentice, turning his face away, leaving him trussed tightly, ankles to wrists. Then using his superior power, he pushed Obi-Wan's mind, hard. "Don't interfere again." Qui-Gon returned to the slave girl who awaited him. He picked her up, accepting the kiss she offered, and began to touch her gently.

"You learn." Corm's voice was rich with satisfaction.

Qui-Gon resisted the impulse to growl at the Riadan ambassador and addressed himself to the slave. But as his anger ebbed, he realized he was unable to enjoy the girl. His mind kept wandering to the knowledge that Obi-Wan lay bound by his hand only feet away, suffering. Finally, Qui-Gon pleasured the woman with his hands and then released her, sending her scampering happily away, his debt to her paid.

Corm had complimented him. Complimented him. Approved his savagery, his bitter anger, his abuse of his padawan. Qui-Gon shuddered. What had he become, to behave so? When had he ceased to be Jedi and become the petty, cruel, domineering slave Master to Obi-Wan? How had he allowed himself to become so angry? It was unworthy of a man, much less a Jedi Master.

He sat with his legs crossed for several minutes after, releasing his anger into the Force, quietly letting his eyes trace the curve of his padawan's spine. Remorse gnawed him viciously. Obi-Wan lay absolutely still, his breath only barely moving his ribs. He looked very small and thoroughly chastened lying as he was. Qui-Gon felt his heart dip and wrench as he remembered the day of cruelty. He rose quietly, kneeling next to his padawan and stroking his fingertips up the curved shell of the young man's vertebrae. Obi-Wan exhaled slowly, eyes closed.

Qui-Gon gently unfastened the bonds he had placed on his padawan and drew Obi-Wan up from the floor. Suffering blue eyes met his as thick lashes rose, and Qui-Gon felt his own shuddering groan ripple down his spine.

"You destroy me, padawan." The words were almost inaudible, exhaled on a sigh. "Come into my arms."

Obi-Wan obeyed like an arrow shot from a bow, lifting his mouth for kisses that Qui-Gon was obliged to give. Wanted to give. Needed to give.

*****

Corm observed silently as the young fighter finally drew away from his Master's hungry mouth and moved downward gracefully. The Jedi Master's hands trembled indecisively for a long moment, then touched the smaller man's face, guiding him. The slave hardly needed it, moving unerringly for his target, burrowing into the complex tangle of thick-layered garments with the ease of long practice.

Corm swallowed thickly, riveted to the tableau before him. Jinn's serenity shattered, his breath hitching and sobbing in his chest as the young man found his objective. The slave's strong hand rested on the older man's thigh, and his sleek muscles worked rhythmically in the bare, beautiful shoulders and back, rising and falling. Dipping and cresting.

Beautiful, both of them, in the heat of their passionate emotion. The subtle, despairing guilt, jealousy, and lust of the elder. The desperate attempts of the younger to defeat that guilt and redeem his favored status through pure erotic ecstasy. Corm licked his lips. He could hardly decide what he desired most. To break the raw harshness and power of Jinn, to ravish the tender vulnerability of Obi-Wan ... watching them together, he could not decide. But he knew what was within his reach. What he could do, and what he could have.

The slave shifted slightly, and now Corm was treated to glimpses of the Master's shaft gleaming slick and wet as his slave rose and fell on it, Jinn's broad hand trembling as it moved to cup the back of the young man's skull, directing him gently. The slave's pink, wet tongue protruding over his lower lip, shielding his Master from his teeth. His bright blue eyes opening and carefully estimating the progress of his Master's pleasure. Jinn's bone-deep shudder, and the soft aching cry torn from his chest as the slave shifted and took his Master deep into his throat. Jinn thrusting helplessly into the welcoming mouth, fingers tangling in the slave's braid and twining in his short hair, holding him down as his hips jerked upward, his body curling around the young man helplessly, the strangled moan of his pleasure escaping against his will.

Corm smiled, stroking his hand over the hip of a blonde beauty who had begun to nuzzle against him. Obi-Wan carefully licked away every trace of his Master's orgasm, unaware that he was under the Riadan priest's eye, plainly relishing the moment, delicately savoring each warm, bitter droplet. It was time to put both man and boy to the test, and reveal the treachery he had suspected from the very beginning. Even if there was none to be found, his purposes would be served.

*****

Obi-Wan trotted through the tiled hall of the west wing of the royal palace, bearing a heavy ewer of lamp oil to its destination in the scullery. Qui-Gon was in audience with Corm and Ahar again, working on hammering out a trade treaty with representatives of the western continent that his padawan strongly suspected would never be used. His experience with Qui-Gon's temporary rejection last night had led to sobering insight. As a love slave, his life and duties could be exceptionally pleasant. But what of those slaves who were not loved? Qal's sorrow when he spoke of his mother and his sober apology when he spoke of Corm indicated that there was such a thing.

It had come to him as he slept pillowed on Qui-Gon's broad chest that he had actually seen very little of the life of a typical slave, only of certain slave duties. By his count, there were easily twice as many pleasure slaves as free persons in the palace; not each of them could have a love-Master. And he had seen kitchen slaves, but did not know where they slept or ate. How were they housed? What and when were they fed? He knew already that a displeasing slave's punishment could be severe and inhumane. What were the extremes to which the work slaves and unwanted ones were subjected? He knew that everything had not yet been revealed to him, but he needed to know so that he could make an accurate report to the Council and the Senate.

Entering the scullery, he set the ewer in a row of nine others and straightened his back. The scullions were busy, preoccupied with a game of cards, barely glancing at him. Looking purposeful, Obi-Wan trotted back out as though on business for a Master.

Behind him, one of the scullions looked up sharply and gestured at a petite girl with chestnut hair. She quickly skipped out after Obi-Wan.

"Obi." A soft call accompanied the light patter of feet, and Obi-Wan turned automatically, not bowing. The name was what the other slaves had taken as his; they seemed to think "Obi-Wan" too dignified, too like the name of a free man.

"Yes?" His smile was equally automatic, but genuine, as the pretty slave approached him.

"I need someone strong to help me, and my Master's workslaves are all busy." She returned the smile seven-fold, an inviting expression even though he was not a Master. "Are you under orders, Obi?"

"Not at the moment." Obi-Wan turned fully to face her. "What do you need?"

She gestured back to the scullery. "I must feed and water the kennel slaves, and I cannot carry the water bags alone."

Obi-Wan nodded sympathetically, hiding a flare of excitement. Kennel slaves? That sounded like something he very much needed to see -- her asking him was an oversight in the careful assignation of duties. He followed her and shouldered two huge tied sacks of water, then fell in behind her. She towed a small sledge with more sacks atop it, presumably containing food.

Slipping through a door he had barely noticed before, she led him down a long spiraled ramp into cool darkness.

The first thing Obi-Wan noticed was the smell. A smell of waste and vermin, iron and old blood. He blinked uneasily. This might be worse than he'd feared.

It was.

They reached the bottom of the ramp, a small area centrally spaced between tier upon tier of narrow iron pens. Some were under the floor, hands grasping upward. Obi-Wan forced himself to maintain his serenity, trailing after the slave-girl and pouring water into pans, troughs, cupped hands, open mouths, while she did the same with meal and dried meat.

Rats scurried about boldly, hardly frightened of the people they wove between. Some of the slaves were even bound inside their tiny kennels, thin and haggard. Some were scarred from the lash, or from multiple brands or other mutilations -- lost ears, hands, noses.

Fighting slaves with missing eyes gave him sullen, hating looks with the one remaining. Slaves fought for the meager rations. Some were too terrified of their cellmates even to try; some of the women had been bound to the bars by their hair.

This, then, was true slavery on Ria. A broad strata of misery that supported the debauchery of a lucky few. These were the work slaves, the displeasing slaves, the unwanted and overworked miserable creatures that a pretense at piety and love in slave-owning could not rationalize away.

Obi-Wan tried not to retch. This was all he needed to know of Corm and Ahar. Somehow, he had to find out if this situation was general on the planet. The Council would have to know that before they could judge fairly.

He finished the task grimly, turning briefly to his companion. "I have to --" He turned, starting to leave, and halted, his stomach sinking like a stone. Six large guards stood at the foot of the ramp, staring out at him. Corm stood behind them, a sneer spreading across his wide, hard face.

"We have caught him in his spying," Corm stated with satisfaction. "Seize him."

"Your pardon, Masters," Obi-Wan spoke hastily. "I was asked to attend to this task."

"Outsiders are not permitted in the slave pens," Corm informed him coolly. "Only branded slaves may come here, without my special dispensation." His glee was barely disguised in his eyes. "You will be punished."

"Forgive me, Master. I did not know." Obi-Wan desperately gathered the force of his will and reached for Qui-Gon's mind even as he spoke the mild words, felt his Master's consternation at the sudden mind-touch, felt his reassurance and haste.

Corm smirked at him nastily, even as Obi-Wan knelt in supplication. "Brand him," he snapped to the guards, and they caught Obi-Wan, dragging him away.

*****

The smithy was a smoking hell. Forges and bellows lined its edges, the stone walls fairly sizzling with heat. It took Obi-Wan's breath, but he struggled to project to Qui-Gon in spite of his distress. He had to be found. He had to be saved from this. Corm was rubbing his hands with pleasure, surveying the room.

"Fill a brazier with coals and prepare irons," he directed, and one of the smiths jumped to do his bidding. Obi-Wan gulped.

"What do you think you're doing to my slave?" The low, silky voice was so cold it nearly froze the room in spite of the searing heat. Qui-Gon Jinn stepped through the door, the hem of his cloak brushing the sooty floor.

"He has overstepped his bounds," Corm snapped. "Trespassed and spied in forbidden areas of the palace. I caught him in one myself. He will be punished, Jedi!" Corm lifted his lip, sneering. "I am within my rights. I am the High Priest of the Riadan Temple, Master of all slaves in Agus Ria, and acting steward to the regent of this palace."

Qui-Gon stared at Obi-Wan for a long moment. "Where was he found?"

"The slave lodgings. With a girl," Corm smirked.

Qui-Gon's eyelashes flickered very, very slightly at his padawan.

"She asked me to help her feed the other slaves, Master!" Obi-Wan injected hastily. "I carried the water ...."

"They were missing for quite a long time." Corm smiled evilly. "The girl is to be beaten."

Qui-Gon gazed up at Corm, refusing to take the bait. "The Republic will not regard this action kindly," he rumbled. "I advise you not to pursue it."

"Your Republic will respect my religious authority." Corm's smirk was wicked. He gestured at the guards, who pushed Obi-Wan to the floor.

"I shall suspend the talks and return to Coruscant!" Qui-Gon's anger broke through his voice, the volume rising to a near-bellow. Obi-Wan had never heard such wrath from his normally serene mentor. It warmed his heart, while simultaneously chilling him with fear.

"Then go, and take with you a worthless, branded slave!" Corm laughed in Qui-Gon's face. "I shall call you on charges before your Senate, expose all that you have done here! Your lies, your spying! The treachery of the Jedi!"

Obi-Wan winced. That could not happen. He had to salvage this ... and there was only one way to do so. Stunning emotion swept through him as he let himself consider, for the first time, what it might mean to bear the brand of a love slave. He remembered how he had felt, surveying himself, reading the marks of Qui-Gon's avid desire. The whip weals, the love bites -- all would fade. But Qui-Gon's brand on his body ....

Yes. Obi-Wan nearly groaned aloud, desire sweeping him with sudden, entirely unexpected force. To be fully owned by his Master. To be marked as Qui-Gon's. To wear the evidence of Qui-Gon's touch forever ... it was worth a moment of pain, and far more than worthwhile if it meant he could protect the reputation of the Jedi -- and of his Master.

Obi-Wan squirmed his way free, just enough to turn his head to Qui-Gon, catching his Master's anguished eye. "Brand me. I beg your favor, my Master!" He heard the lust in his own tones, the challenge. Obi-Wan winced at the shock in Qui-Gon's eyes. He'd known it would be this way, and yet he had no way to explain himself.

Brutal hands were on him, his face forced into the soot on the floor of the smithy, but to him it was as though Qui-Gon were the only other person present in the room. "As your slave, I beg that you honor me with your brand."

For a long moment, Qui-Gon's eyes bored into Obi-Wan, then flickered to Corm, and back again. Indecision and poised violence loomed large in him, duty warring against love and hate. The Dark Side beckoned. Obi-Wan swallowed hard, trying to make his eyes a lifeline to his Master. No. You are a Jedi. He could not be sure if his Master heard the desperate thought.

"I will not do this." Qui-Gon's jaw clenched until the muscles cramped, the darkness pulsing in him. His hair lifted in the hot breeze as a bellows blew blue flame from a brazier of coals nearby.

"Would you have me wear a mark given by another?" Obi-Wan's eyes were strong, clear blue, and Qui-Gon could hear the Jedi calm in his padawan's voice. "Would you trust another to wield the iron?"

"Remember Xanatos!" Qui-Gon growled, helpless to offer further excuses, hoping the memories conjured by that word would be enough.

"Xanatos wears a brand, a memory of you. At his choosing. Would you deny me the same?" Obi-Wan's voice rang with confidence and conviction, as it had so long ago on Bandomeer when he had planned to sacrifice himself to free Qui-Gon and save the mining colony above.

Qui-Gon was desperate, trapped, and his eyes darted about the room, searching for escape, searching to find a way out, as he had done so long ago. But this time, there wasn't one. It was Qui-Gon against an entire planet, even his own padawan. Even Obi-Wan, who somehow wanted this of him and had determined to get it.

"Would you, Master? Would you deny me the chance to wear your mark ... in love?" Obi-Wan's eyes were bright with unshed tears.

"Slaves have no rights." Qui-Gon felt the rage dissipating and his control along with it. He seized at the crumbling walls in desperation. "And you have no right to demand this of me."

"Obi-Wan Kenobi's rights do not exist. His wishes are immaterial here," Corm interrupted. He stepped close to Qui-Gon. "He is a slave. Master him." His whisper was low, thick with lust. "Master yourself."

Qui-Gon bowed his head, clutching at the cool of an anvil. "I will not do this thing."

"Then I will!" Corm snapped back at him, furious with impatience. "The slave will be branded, Jinn, by you ... or by me." Qui-Gon just shook his head, the fall of his silver-brown hair hiding his face from Obi-Wan's sight.

Trembling, the young Jedi padawan began to struggle. Corm signaled, and the men holding Obi-Wan lifted him. The young man writhed and two of them flew, one nearly striking the brazier before he fell to the floor. Two more shrank away, crying out in fear, unable to understand what had happened. The High Priest merely gloated, glad to receive confirmation of his guess that Obi-Wan possessed Jedi abilities. This entire setup had proved worthwhile indeed. Now his plans could proceed apace.

He stepped forward into the melee. "Hold him tightly!" Corm warned, adding his strength to the fray. Another man crashed into a wall of hanging tools, but four still clung to Obi-Wan, and together they fought to push him into the vise set nearby, a huge device for immobilizing squirming, resistant bodies under the iron.

"Master!" Obi-Wan pleaded, his voice choked as he writhed furiously and desperately to free himself without injuring his captors. "Let it be you. Please!"

"Let him go." Qui-Gon's voice was hoarse with anguish, and he raised his head, his face gaunt. The men hesitated, fearing Obi-Wan's abilities. "I said, let him GO!" This time, the invisible crush of pressure flung bodies everywhere throughout the forge, pinning them to its walls. Obi-Wan very nearly dropped as their hands were removed, but was caught in midair and lowered gently to his feet.

Corm, cold sweat rolling form his brow in spite of the heat of the forge fires, stared at Qui-Gon, awed by the extent of the Jedi Master's power to effortlessly dispatch seven strong men at once.

"You will not need the vise, Master," Obi-Wan spoke softly, walking demurely to take his accustomed place at Qui-Gon's left side, one pace back.

"I know." Qui-Gon's voice was hollow, broken. He reached, taking a set of tongs in unsteady hands.

"How is this done?" He turned haunted eyes on Corm, who froze for a moment under the rage in the Jedi's stare. "How is it DONE?" Qui-Gon roared, dropping the tongs and lunging for the priest, catching his tunic in both fists, hauling the startled man up to eye-level, leaving his booted toes dangling inches above the floor.

"Heat each piece of metal until it is almost ready to glow, take it in the tongs," Corm babbled hastily. "Tap it to his flesh for the barest instant. Build the pattern you want. It must be done with a steady hand, and firmly, with an equal pressure for each piece, or the brand will blur, or be badly formed --"

"My hand will be steady," Qui-Gon snarled, shaking Corm.

"You will have to lock him into the vise, immobilize him --"

No." Qui-Gon dropped the priest to the earthen floor with unceremonious contempt. "Watch and see a man, Corm. Watch my slave show you that he is a thousand times the man you are."

Obi-Wan was moving, covering three empty quenching barrels with their round lids so that they formed a raised platform for him to lie upon. He did so, palm moving low on the left side of his belly, inward and downward from the bone of his hip, but not too far. "Here, Master," he requested softly.

Qui-Gon nodded once, grimly, setting his teeth, and reached for the tongs. "What mark do you wish, Obi-Wan?" The words slurred between his closed teeth; Qui-Gon did not know if he could ever force his jaw to open again.

"As you like, Master." Obi-Wan's soft, calm voice would have soothed him if anything could.

Qui-Gon ran his fingers through the cold metal pieces in their wooden box on the anvil, extracting two inch-tall shapes, very similar ones. Set close together, they would form a stylized J. Very well. If Obi-Wan must be branded, then let it be a reinforcement of his identity. Let him be branded a Jedi.

Qui-Gon was aware of his padawan's eyes following him with interest as he took two pairs of tongs and set the tiny pieces in the coals. As he pumped the bellows, the orange and blue flames cast saturnine shadows on his features, scorching his hair and beard.

Obi-Wan's eyes locked on his as he turned, tongs in hand. Qui-Gon never let himself falter, stepping forward.

Corm watched in awe.

The slave -- the padawan Kenobi -- lay perfectly still, unbound, as the first iron touched his skin, darting in with the grace and speed of an adder, to kiss the smooth white flesh and flick away. Obi-Wan merely inhaled slightly, a faint hiss of pain, unmoving. His Master threw the tongs and iron down, face shuttered, as he lifted the second iron. Corm could not help himself, creeping closer, watching Obi-Wan's still, peaceful face and serene eyes. Again the viper struck and recoiled.

Qui-Gon flung the second pair of tongs from him and lunged to kick the brazier, spraying coals in a wide arc across the earthen floor. He would not look at the burns he had placed on his padawan.

Obi-Wan raised himself, examining the mark his Master had chosen to put on him. "Jinn," he whispered so softly that Qui-Gon was not sure Obi-Wan even knew he had spoken aloud. The low sound was filled with wonder and pleasure.

Qui-Gon wept.

*****

The Jedi Master found no contentment in the afternoon's meal, despite the fact that Corm left him alone for once, contenting himself with sitting back and smirking at him. The negotiations were nearly at their end. Qui-Gon had no desire to continue them, even had Obi-Wan not found what they needed. But at what cost?

Qui-Gon could not bear to think on the many things he had done to his padawan during this mission. If only he had accepted and acted on his feelings for Obi-Wan before this damned fiasco began, they might never have come to this ... but he hadn't. And so Obi-Wan had wanted to be taken, craved Qui-Gon's abusive attention ... and finally, demanded Qui-Gon's own brand. The Jedi Master trusted his feelings, and they whispered incontrovertibly that his padawan had needed to be marked by him, his desire for evidence of his Master's possession hinting at an insecurity so vast that Qui-Gon could hardly comprehend how Obi-Wan might have hidden it so well.

And it had been unavoidable. Qui-Gon had been forced to save some of the shambles of their mission, to avoid the scandal of Corm's accusations against the Jedi. Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon had both known it. Unavoidable, like so many other things. Like Obi-Wan's firm insistence that they play these roles to the hilt ... like Qui-Gon's own deep weakness, his inability to resist his padawan's allure.

Corm and Obi-Wan had each played Qui-Gon like a stringed instrument; he was fully aware of that now. He tried unsuccessfully to quash his resentment for his padawan's part in the fiasco. Obi-Wan had done what he thought he must to complete the mission successfully, and he had done a far better job than his Master. Distracted by his emotions, Qui-Gon had only been an impediment to Obi-Wan, as clumsy and unskilled as a new padawan, stumbling over his own feet.

After the branding was done, they had walked back to Qui-Gon's quarters silently, Qui-Gon's cheeks slowly drying and tightening in the wind of their passage. Obi-Wan's normal fluid, swaying walk was unbalanced, stiffened with pain as he tried to immobilize the area of the searing burn. Inside their door, Qui-Gon had immediately reached to heal it, and been gently deflected. The gesture had nearly undone him again, as so many things already had on this cursed farce of a mission. Struggling for serenity and command of the situation, Qui-Gon had leveled a flat stare at Obi-Wan. "My mission is over," he commented dryly.

Obi-Wan met his eyes with a quiet, significant nod. "Yes, Master. It is." Qui-Gon suspected that meant Obi-Wan thought he had succeeded in learning what he needed to know for the Council's purposes. In any case, his padawan knew better than to contradict Qui-Gon in this decision. Simultaneously relieved and aching, Qui-Gon had taken his beloved student by the hand and chained the young man to the wall, a tacit command that he refrain from running further risks. Obi-Wan had accepted the unexpected action willingly, and Qui-Gon had left him there.

"High Priest, I believe I have done all that I can at this time to create the agreements your people will need if your society is accepted into the Republic." The Jedi Master knew his hostility was barely veiled. "I wish to return to Coruscant."

"The transport offplanet will be ready tomorrow morning." Corm broke his silent thoughts, the comment almost jovial. He was amused by watching the play of Qui-Gon's emotions. "However, we have already scheduled a group of councilmen and city leaders for an evening's meeting with the Republic's emissary. We would be honored if you met with them before you leave."

It was one thing Qui-Gon could still do. He nodded almost imperceptibly, rose, and accompanied the dignitaries to a conference chamber, to set their petitions for trade privileges aside tactfully. They would not be needed, not if he had anything to say about it.

*****

Obi-Wan drifted out of his light healing trance and reached for a sense of his Master. He was reassured to know that Qui-Gon was not far away. He hated being left alone, trussed like this, even though he understood why Qui-Gon had done it -- Obi-Wan had forced his Master's hand badly in the smithy. Not only did Qui-Gon require assurance that his padawan was safe and sound, but he also needed to re-establish his control over Obi-Wan's movements and actions.

The young Jedi fidgeted, sighing a little as he sought a more comfortable position. If something happened to Qui-Gon and he never came back, Obi-Wan would be in the very uncomfortable predicament of having to choose between their cover story and his own physical well-being. Qui-Gon had bound him wordlessly, pocketing the key. It was his Master's best way of ensuring that no further trouble would arise from his padawan's wanderings.

Obi-Wan tested the chains that held him to the wall, glad that the stones were on a sunward exposure. At least he was comfortably warm. He sighed, relaxing in the chains, and time crept slowly by. Soon they would go, and resume the lives that they had left. The thought gave Obi-Wan both a pang of hope and one of regret and fear. Surely Qui-Gon could not pretend that they had not made love, could not deny the strength of the desire that had risen between them.

Could he?

The heavy wooden door creaked open, interrupting the young Jedi's worries. Having recently been immersed in the living Force to find Qui-Gon's presence and location, Obi-Wan knew it was not his Master entering the room. His eyes snapped open even as he forced himself to preserve his calm in case he needed to defend. But it was just a slave girl.

"Your Master sends wine to his favored slave." The girl set a pitcher and goblet down on the table, filled the goblet. It was a pale wine, and Obi-Wan's mouth watered. He could smell the acidic, acerbic crushed-grape flavor from where he lay flush to the warm stones. His mouth was bone dry, and the brand throbbed in spite of the healing he had done, the small mark flaming on his lower belly. His Master must have sensed the touch of his mind when Obi-Wan reached out to him earlier and thought to send his padawan a drink. He should have let Qui-Gon work a healing to ease his pain, but he had suspected that the older Jedi would elect to remove the mark altogether.

The girl approached Obi-Wan humbly, admiring his body, and set the pitcher aside, filling a deep goblet. Obi-Wan blinked as she performed the ritual of obeisance to him, touching the wine cup to her own lips before moving to loosen the gorget that held his head against the wall. He leaned forward to accept the liquid from her, and she stood on tiptoe to tilt it against his mouth. Obi-Wan drank thirstily.

The alcohol sent a burning rush through him immediately, the intoxicants acting quickly on his empty stomach. Obi-Wan carefully adjusted his metabolism to burn them away. Left alone as he was, he was too vulnerable to get drunk. He only needed the moisture.

The girl tipped the goblet too far, and a droplet of wine flowed down from his mouth, over his jaw, dripping onto his chest. The goblet fell away, empty, and the girl leaned forward. Her tongue was delicate on his sweat-soaked skin, sending a rush of desire through him. His head was swimming. Obi-Wan blinked fuzzily, and then it seemed that the ceiling descended on him with a crash, though some part of his mind whispered that it was only his eyelids. 'Tricked again ...' a mocking voice seemed to whisper as he drifted into black.

*****

He awakened in a different room. His mouth tasted of sour wine and his stomach threatened to expel its contents. His entire body felt heavy and leaden, and his concentration was foggy, but the metabolic boost he had set in motion was still working, and the fog was lifting even as he lay there estimating his condition.

The wine had been drugged. Obviously it had not been sent by Qui-Gon at all, and Obi-Wan had clearly been a fool twice in one day, falling for a pretty slave's tricks in the house of a known enemy. He thanked the Force for having had the insight to alter his metabolism before the drug had time to work, but he didn't have time to waste on trifles. What mattered now was getting out of here, finding Qui-Gon. He reached for his Master's presence, but the fog was too thick and he subsided, saving his energy.

Who had taken him, and why? Corm, obviously, and probably to destroy him, so that Obi-Wan could not carry tales of the slave pens of the palace in Agus Ria back to the Senate. The padawan took a moment to study his surroundings. They were not pleasant. He was strapped to a rack that was like the one upon which he had once been whipped, only on this one there was a loose web of supporting straps, holding his body relatively immobile instead of letting it swing. Across the room was a wall of kennels, each holding a slave. Obi-Wan felt a renewed rush of nausea.

This was a different room than the one he had visited this morning -- different, and worse. Each kennel was recessed into the wall, barely large enough for the single tightly-curled body it held. Weary, defeated slaves lay or squatted within, eyes dull, waiting to be freed for their duties -- Obi-Wan could even sense the life signature of someone who had been stuffed into an amazingly small closed box, with airholes in its lid. Whimpers resounded throughout the room from the beaten ... and the tortured.

Around the room were ranged a variety of implements that could only be intended for savage punishment and torture. Whips, pincers, racks that could be extended by the turning of wheels, devices for piercing and crushing ... he shuddered with sympathy for the poor wretches in their cages. Nothing he had seen before on Ria had prepared him for this. Again he reached for his Master but was unable to penetrate the fog between them. He had to make sure Qui-Gon knew of this! But perhaps his Master had been drugged, as well.

Obi-Wan struggled against the straps for a moment, furious. The Force slid clumsily through his head; he could manage some crude control but not enough yet to work the fine catches in the clasps at his wrists. Even as Obi-Wan struggled to free himself, he heard the doors of the small dungeon opening and voices from the hall without. One he recognized. Corm.

Obi-Wan felt his lips draw back in a snarl. Very well. Obi-Wan would play along with the charade, regaining his clarity and control with every moment, husbanding his strength until he had to strike. He let his eyes shut and sagged in the straps.

"The slave drank all the wine?" Corm questioned sharply, and there was a frightened feminine assent. "Then he will be unconscious till the evening." Corm's voice was thick with gloating and with lust. "We'll give him a mild neural purgative and return him to Jinn, and neither of them will know the difference."

A second voice, an unfamiliar one. "Return him to Jinn? I thought we were to keep this one, use him to train the others."

"I had planned to do that, but it is too dangerous." Corm sounded faintly nervous for the first time. "The Jedi Knight would take the planet apart stone by stone to regain his love slave. Best to let him go. Perhaps the abilities manifest on their own. Or perhaps we could seek others who might be willing to train them, others with less delicate consciences ..."

Train them? Train whom? And in what? Abilities ... he must mean the Force. There could be Force-sensitives on Ria; who else might Obi-wan be expected to train? He listened sharply, hoping for more information. The steps of the unknown man receded, and Corm approached. His boots were loud on the stone floor, approaching Obi-Wan, and the young Jedi padawan could feel the caress coming and chose not to flinch away from it. For the moment. Perhaps Corm would yet reveal more of what he was up to.

"Beautiful boy," Corm sighed, as his hand traced the stretched muscles in Obi-Wan's chest. "I'll have him, and then we'll take our genetic sample. It can be used to inseminate many slaves. We'll soon learn if the Republic's citizens are compatible with our own."

Obi-Wan lay perfectly still, but he felt as though his ears had pricked to points, and his mind raced. Why would Corm need to do such a thing? Why would he need Obi-Wan for the breeding of slaves, when he had an entire population to choose from? Corm could already breed slaves to torture. If he wanted Obi-Wan's genetic material ... the padawan struggled against the lingering fogginess of the drug in his brain. The obvious conclusion was terribly clear. With Obi-Wan, with a Jedi, Corm could breed slaves who could be trained to use the Force, Force-enhanced bodyguards, field laborers, work servants, pleasure slaves -- all with extraordinary supernatural ability to enhance their performance. Sons and daughters of Obi-Wan's own, to be branded and tormented in slavery, only a very few at best finding the pampered life of a favored pleasure slave -- and even that would not be of their choosing.

Suffice it to say, Corm wouldn't obtain either the sex or the sample he was after. Not while Obi-Wan still lived. Better to die than to permit a child of his to be brought into such a life.

Even worse, Obi-Wan knew that he could expect it to be the same for countless other Republic citizens, citizens and children and especially failed Jedi candidates who might themselves be enticed to Ria somehow and fall slave, be captured by the Hutt and sold to the Riadans ... he released his rage into the Force, centering himself in serenity again. He would do all that one man could to prevent such things. Beyond that, there was only the will of the Force.

And Obi-Wan was not without power to influence some things. Corm thought he knew what he needed to proceed with his plans, but he was far from understanding the powers of the Jedi. Even half-drugged, bound, and incapacitated, Obi-Wan could do what he had to do to defend himself from simple sexual assault. None of his own children would be made slave, at the least.

Corm added a second hand to his caresses, and his thick wet lips touched Obi-Wan's skin. The young Jedi still waited, biding his time, hoping for more information, but none was forthcoming, only more of the loathsome caresses. Then Corm fumbled at his belt, and Obi-Wan knew the time had come.

He opened his eyes, staring into Corm's startled gaze, his stare the angry blue fire at the nimbus of a lightsaber blade.

Corm faltered slightly, swallowing. "Did he drink it all?" he stepped back, glancing for the girl he had brought.

"I did," Obi-Wan said, his voice crystal clear. "But I am a Jedi. Like my Master." He bared his teeth. The time for pretense was past.

Corm stepped back hastily, knocking the girl aside. Damn the boy's strength! He remembered the young man's control, had seen him take a branding, unbound, unmoving. He should have known this might happen. "Go!" Corm kicked at her with his boot in panic. "Fetch Raf! If we can't drug him, we'll have to dispose of him after all!"

Obi-Wan felt his lips stretch into a malicious smile. He reached for his Master again, inwardly damning the dregs of the intoxicant that still clung to him, preventing that contact.

Corm rushed to the side of the room, fumbling in an alcove, preparing more drugged wine, cursing. He'd wanted the boy so badly he'd miscalculated, forced his hand, rushed by Qui-Gon's decision to abandon negotiations and return to Coruscant.

Obi-Wan relaxed, watching, unafraid. Corm's hands were shaking wildly; he dropped several of the white pellets before he managed to get a few inside the wine cup and pour the liquor in with them. Rushing back to Obi-Wan, wine slopping, he cranked the rack over until Obi-Wan lay horizontal with the floor. Corm reached and clamped Obi-Wan's nose shut, planning to force him to take the wine.

Five minutes later, Obi-Wan's perfectly alert, serene eyes still watched Corm calmly with no hint of distress, the padawan's lips firmly shut.

Ten minutes later, the same.

At last Corm cursed desperately, flinging aside the drugged liquid and releasing Obi-Wan, who immediately resumed normal breathing.

"You Jedi aren't human!" The priest was badly shaken, his thick tongue slicking his lips with terror. Obi-Wan shrugged as well as he was able, tied as he was. The fog was still thinning, though he could not yet feel Qui-Gon's presence through it. Soon. Very soon.

Obi-Wan let his lips thin in an intimidating smile. He still couldn't reach Qui-Gon, but there was one thing he could do now that he couldn't earlier. The blood drained from Corm's face as the leather threaded through the buckles that held Obi-Wan's hands slowly began to slide free, untouched.

A clattering of boots down the corridor spurred Obi-Wan to extra haste, and his right wrist fell free. Corm's sword slid from its scabbard and flew to Obi-Wan's fist. The weapon was heavy and awkward, its balance entirely different from a lightsaber, and it felt wrong in Obi-Wan's hand, but as the remainder of the restraints fell away, he launched himself forward anyway.

His knees very nearly buckled, but Obi-Wan turned the stumble into a feint and slashed at Corm's legs. The Riadan had not lied. He was a warrior, jumping instantly to evade the rapid slash, buying enough time for his men to begin pouring into the room, dividing Obi-Wan's attention. Many of these men had seen Obi-Wan perform the Grand Dance; those respected him immediately. The ones who didn't swiftly learned to do so.

Obi-Wan danced with his sword, naked against armored men, and was untouched. He seemed to blur, leaping, whirling, parrying from all angles at once, but it was all he could do to block blows from so many opponents without launching any of his own.

Then more men flowed into the room, pressing him backward perforce, narrowing his field of motion. The stalemate shifted slightly; he could not maintain this pace forever. Soon he must kill or be killed.

He blinked, his concentration wavering, and nearly faltered in a parry. He quickly somersaulted backward, lighting in a crouch atop the topmost tier of kennels. He could not keep up a battle indefinitely against so many men, and he needed to summon total concentration to seek Qui-Gon's consciousness through the drug. He reached out again, desperate, searching for that familiar presence, but it was beyond him.

Still, there was nothing further to be gained by fighting; he could not win through an entire army. Even the corridor outside was crowded now, jammed with men. Obi-Wan dropped the sword.

"I surrender."

None wanted to be first to advance on Obi-Wan and drag him down from his perch, but one man kicked his sword away, and it disappeared under the feet of the press of armed soldiers and guards. Obi-Wan gracefully vaulted down and offered his arms for binding.

He would have to trust in himself.

"We'll run a full neural purge on him before his Master learns what I've done." Corm was sweating. "That one would be the death of us all!"

A man stood forth out of the mob, eyes terrified, tongue darting to slick his lips. Obi-Wan recognized him; he'd been one of the guards who had dragged the padawan to the smithy for branding. He was burly and dirty, with long curling black hair. He'd had courage then, withstanding Obi-Wan's use of the Force and refusing to cower from Qui-Gon even after the display of his mastery of the same power, but he had apparently reached the end of his rope this time.

"You are a fool, Corm of the Temple." Raf hissed the words fearfully. "Bringing this boy down here to rape, without first accounting for his Master! Are you mad? A thousand slaves are for rent in the city, each one prettier than the last, but you must have the preferred love-slave of the diplomatic liaison -- a Jedi Knight!"

Obi-Wan remained silent.

"I had him drugged!" Corm mustered an intimidating stare. "How was I to know the boy would shake it off so quickly?"

"You watched him branded this very day! I was there, Corm! You saw him send men flying with his mind, and you saw how much stronger his Master is! You saw this boy take the iron unbound, without even a whimper! Surely that might have taught you a lesson, enough to guess that there was unacceptable risk involved in kidnapping him!" Raf was shouting by the end of his tirade, glancing nervously about as though he expected Qui-Gon Jinn to materialize among them at any moment, as he had done at the smithy.

"I had to get the --" Corm halted, remembering Obi-Wan's presence. "Will none of you bind the slave?" he yelled to his men, spittle flying from his mouth.

Two men nervously stepped forward and put irons on the young padawan, who suffered it quietly, distracted by his continuing fruitless search for Qui-Gon's aura.

"The neural purge will take care of him. You'll have to knock him unconscious and inject it in him. The tranquilizer worked, for a time. How can he shake that off, when it works in less than a minute?" The priest hesitated, calming himself. "And pray to whatever gods you favor that it does work, or the Ambassador will cut your throats with your own swords."

"And your throat, Corm of the Temple?" Raf's eyes glittered. "If the purge fails, your throat will be first under the Ambassador's blade, I think."

Corm hesitated, fear waxing within him so strongly Obi-Wan could feel it leaking out and into the other men. "Very well. We will forego the sample for now, and use thrice the maximum dose in the purge. Then we'll sell him, keeping track of who makes the purchase. If he cannot be found, the Ambassador will have no proof against us! It has been clear for days that there is conflict between them. None of our people will hesitate to believe the boy has run away."

The Priest began to regain his confidence. "We will let Ahar answer any inquiries from the Republic. His mind is clear. Even if Jedi can see through the confusion of the bitterroot, they will find no guilt there."

"We should kill him." Raf's voice was flat. "There is too much risk in leaving him alive."

"Fool!" Corm lunged forward, catching Raf's tunic in his fist and flinging his subordinate against the wall. "If we kill him, there will be no way to complete our plans! Once the Ambassador has given up his search, once the Republic has forgotten him, we will know where he is, and we can retrieve him. Then I will be his Master." Corm's hot eyes grew crafty as he turned a triumphant stare on Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan could have laughed in the Riadan's face. Corm was playing into his hands; the Priest's greed had blinded him fatally. The padawan hid his triumph, stilling his face ... except for the faintest misleading quiver in his lip. The Riadan's smile widened into a leer, and he signaled Raf harshly. "Do not injure him seriously."

"NO!" Obi-Wan feigned despair, struggling. He flung men from him indiscriminately, squirming, fleeing until he was tripped and flung to his face. Eventually he let the crowd overwhelm him, pretending despair as he stumbled after Raf, twelve mercenary guardsmen hustling him from the room. The Riadan mercenary was cursing, nursing a split lip, and several of his men were limping. Obi-Wan found it difficult not to take satisfaction in the fact.

He had little enough fear of the mental purge -- another drug; if he did not get a chance to dominate Raf's mind and avoid the dosage, its effects could be retarded; at worst he could enter a trance and force it out of his system.

Feeling in control of the situation once more, Obi-Wan decided against contacting his Master just yet. It could actually be advantageous to their mission that he be sold, that he delay their return to Coruscant just long enough for further crucial research. There was no way he could discover the full extent of Riadan slavery while he nestled in the palace under Qui-Gon's protective wing. Anonymous in the public slave pens, alone on the block, forsaken in the house of an unknowing Riadan Master, Obi-Wan would discover whether or not the state of affairs he had glimpsed in Corm's private slave pens was an exception ... or the Riadan norm.

It was easy enough to sense the unannounced blow falling toward his skull, imitate the pillow of cushioning Force Qui-Gon had used to soften his whipping, and feign unconsciousness from the blow he had so subtly diverted. It was not much more difficult to isolate a tiny patch of tissue around the needle inserted into his arm, confining the drug and forcing it osmotically out of his body, where it could evaporate harmlessly from his skin.

Obi-Wan lolled, letting himself be dragged from the palace.

*****

From the crenellated wall of the palace garden, hooded eyes watched, and as the guards turned a corner with their burden, a cloaked figure dropped outside the wall. The watcher melted into the streets, following them at a safe distance until he was sure of their destination. Then he turned aside. There was little more he could do, for the moment.

*****

Qui-Gon finished with the last diplomatic liaison well after sunset, bowing politely, impatience screaming for release inside the serenity. Something itched at his nerves, a sense of things out of place, hidden wrongness. The sooner they were off this blasted planet, the better.

It took additional restraint to moderate his stride as he moved toward the suite of rooms he and Obi-Wan had been given. He tried to deny both his eagerness and his guilt as he opened the door and stepped within. Obi-Wan had been left chained for far longer than Qui-Gon had anticipated. He tossed aside his cloak quickly, moving for the antechamber where he had left his student.

"Are you ready for supper, pada--" Qui-Gon's gentle words died in his throat. The chains hung empty on the wall. Obi-Wan was gone.

He forced himself to stand still while his mind raced. Obi-Wan could have freed himself, or he could have been taken. Who would have taken him? If it were Corm, he would get no satisfactory answers from the man ... perhaps Qal would be of help.

Qui-Gon hurried out, and found himself unable to locate the Riadan Prince. Immediately, his suspicions began to grow. His padawan and Qal, both missing at once ... it was almost certain they were cooperating in some hare-brained, useless, dangerous scheme together. Qui-Gon felt his temper heating as he wondered what it might be. Had Obi-Wan decided to intervene between Corm and King Ahar at Qal's urging?

Casting about with the Force, he began to seek the Prince's life signature. Finding it, Qui-Gon swept through the corridors like an angel of wrath. Obi-Wan's signature was not present; the more cause for his growing concern and the building threat of sudden, overwhelming fury.

He rounded the corner, coming on Qal with a suddenness that clearly intimidated the young Prince, who instinctively stepped back until a wall halted his motion. The girl at his side cowered back more nervously, stepping well away from Qui-Gon.

"Your Highness." Qui-Gon reined in his tone and temper carefully. "Have you seen my Obi-Wan?"

"Not since earlier this afternoon." Qal's answer was a shade too careful.

"Indeed." Qui-Gon's tone was cool. "If you see him, I would ask your favor. Command him that he is to return to my side. Immediately." The final word was ice as it left his lips, and he fixed the Prince with a gaze of barely veiled threat.

Guilt and resentment, vibrating through the Force around him like a swamp-snake crawling through slime. Qui-Gon had already let that snake curl around him; it was difficult to pry it loose. He watched as Qal hurriedly turned and strode away. At last he tamed himself, but he could feel the wrath lingering, waiting to sink its fangs into him again.

He had to find Obi-Wan.

Silent, drawing the Force around him like a cloak of shadows, he fell in behind Qal. He was certain the Prince would lead him to his padawan.

*****

The young Jedi was dragged through a maze of dusty streets, and eventually was tumbled to the filthy floor of a building. Slitting his eyelids, he watched the transaction: a receipt in exchange for his body, and the promise of the funds he brought ... minus, of course, the auction house's commission. A tag was wired onto his collar -- his lot number.

And then he was stuffed into one of the tiny kennels to wait until he regained consciousness. Obi-Wan drew into himself, glad that his body was limber. He could neither raise his head nor extend any part of his body fully. He sighed, settling into the Force. For what he must do now, he required a perfect trance, and this posture would make that difficult.

Obi-Wan sank away from himself, opening to the outer world, and to the people in it. Dozens, hundreds of slaves. Career slavers. A moving, gelatinous mass of humanity.

And of misery.

The flicker of the lash. The searing kiss of the iron. Torment under hot pincers. Verbal abuse. The separation of mothers and children. Hours of senseless labor, poor rations ... overlapping experiences cascaded over him mercilessly. He turned himself away from the unbearable cataract of pain, reaching to the slavers.

Cruelty, pleasure in the pain of others. Precious little love or caring, even for their fellow free men. A callous disregard of the slaves, who were merely animals. The only god they truly worshipped was the fulfillment of selfish pleasures and the pursuit of money.

Obi-Wan filtered out of his trance. He had his final proofs. Now he needed only to wait for his opportunity to escape.

That opportunity was slow in coming. Though he had expected to be sold quickly, several hours passed as he was carefully prepared for the auction block. At last, resigned, Obi-Wan permitted himself to relax and enjoy what was being done to him, a slow, careful process of maximizing his physical beauty.

Lazily he reached out with his senses. It was well after nightfall already -- and for the first time in hours, he could sense Qui-Gon. His Master was approaching rapidly; he must have learned Obi-Wan's whereabouts and come after him. And it was well -- Obi-Wan needed to learn no more.

Suddenly, all that he could think of was how he would look to Qui-Gon when he was displayed upon the block. There was no shame in him, no fear of the eyes of others. There was only his relief that Qui-Gon had come for him, and pleasure in imagining how his Master might see him. This might be his last chance to display himself so boldly for Qui-Gon's eyes, his last chance to melt his Master's determined reserve with the brazen beauty and paradoxical freedom his role had permitted him.

He would not waste it.

He was bathed thoroughly and dried by slave girls, who marveled both at his body and at its lack of response to them. Their clever fingers reworked and retied his braid, and Obi-Wan lay serene, accepting. Then his body was oiled with a dark musky oil that turned his skin to gold and highlighted his muscles. Obi-Wan enjoyed the sensation of its warmth being massaged onto his body, simply being in the moment.

He was rouged next, made up with subtle care, his nipples and penis darkened to rose-amber, the deep ash blond of his chest and pubic hair dusted subtly darker. Then his face was painted almost as though he were a girl, subtle highlights on cheek and jaw, kohl around his eyelids, more of the darkening dust on lashes and brows. His lips were rouged and oiled, accenting their narrow line with a touch of fullness, and more of the sweet musky oil was teased into his hair, making it appear as though he were fresh with the sweat of some pleasant erotic activity.

A perfumer touched him with another subtle musk and Obi-Wan could feel the pheromone base of the perfume melding with his own body chemistry. Anyone near him would experience it also.

His only moment of distress came when the collar bearing Qui-Gon's name was cut from him, hacksawed from his neck and replaced with an anonymous one, un-engraved. The loss of Qui-Gon's collar felt like he had lost his Master, somehow, and it forced him to reach again for Qui-Gon's reassuring presence. Finding it, he forced himself to relax as the lot number was wired onto him once more.

A constant shuffle began and he was moved through cage after cage, approaching the block. Heightening anticipation, a growing swell of excited noise. Finally Obi-Wan's eyes were retouched and his lashes were dusted dark once more, and he was ready to ascend the block. Not a moment too soon. He felt the chill of metal under his bare feet as he climbed into blazing glare. The room was circular, steeply slanted. He squinted, finding a half-circle of open floor packed with free persons, a tilted row of seating, and a tall tier of private boxes. Much like a small theater, then, and he was at center stage.

The auctioneer was a woman, and most of those in the crowd were women also. Obi-Wan glanced about, looking for a glimpse of Qui-Gon, but he could only see a mass of anonymous female faces.

There was a moment of expectant hush, and then a swelling shout greeted him as a spotlight fell on his upturned face, casting his body into sharp relief, but he was hardly aware of it, seeking Qui-Gon's reaction.

There was none.

Surprise, then irritation, flared in Obi-Wan at Qui-Gon's calm, injuring his vanity. Very well. He would make his Master react, then. He knew he could.

The auctioneer had begun to speak. "This young warrior, but recently fallen slave, is an offworlder. Note his muscular thighs." Her whip tapped at Obi-Wan's leg, and he moved, flexing the limb, conscious of a gush of sighed approval from the crowd. But not from Qui-Gon.

"Well-endowed, youthful, vigorous. A fine bedmate and a strong worker. Who will bid, ladies, on this handsome silk slave?"

An eager voice called from the crowd, and another. The numbers meant little to Obi-Wan, he knew nothing of Riadan currency, but the bidding was steady, and rising quickly, stimulating his pride.

"Or gentlemen? A battle every night to tame his spirit, to make him cry your name in chains." The auctioneer smiled, flicking her arm at Obi-Wan, pointing a path for him.

Obi-Wan lifted his chin defiantly, but obeyed the auctioneer's gesture, walking back and forth across the front of the block, displaying himself. He thought of Qui-Gon's eyes on him, following him from somewhere far in the back of the crowd, and let his hips begin to sway sensually. The bidding continued, creeping upward.

"Slave paces!" The auctioneer snapped as he passed her podium, flicking the whip lightly at him.

Obi-Wan did not know them, but he did not let that stop him.

Harnessing the tension in his body, the heady exhilaration of so much public admiration and his growing frustration with Qui-Gon's emotional silence, he fell into a pose, slightly out of range of the auctioneer's whip.

An Art of Grace, a meditative exercise. Many Masters did them, melding body, spirit, and mind. Each created his own, following the Force in his body. It was the most individual expression of harmony between the physical self and the Force. Padawans never did such, learning formal katas. A Knight might begin to create his, but it was never completed until he had mastered himself and the Force, and been granted the rank of that achievement.

Obi-Wan fell into the pose for the first move of Qui-Gon's own Art of Grace.

*****

Qui-Gon stood, arms folded into the sleeves of his cloak, watching his student ascend the block. Obi-Wan was stunningly beautiful as the lights exploded onto him, and the women in the audience gasped, delighted.

Qui-Gon closed himself down immediately, refusing to participate in the hysteria that rose about him, and refusing also to participate in darker emotions. He had spied Qal waiting in the crowd almost as soon as he entered. Qal was clad in a gray cloak like any one of a hundred, his features covered and anonymous, but Qui-Gon knew his life-signature well from following it halfway across Agus Ria. The Prince was holding a bidder's paddle, preparing to make a purchase.

The Prince might be planning to buy Obi-Wan, he might be planning to drive the padawan's price as high as possible, to ensure that Obi-Wan would be bought by someone of wealth. Whatever the case, the two of them had clearly conspired, independent of the Jedi Master, to expand Obi-Wan's experience of slavery. Perhaps they had even conspired to use this as a ruse to torment Qui-Gon, to break his restraint, to force him to seek solace and peace in the relief of Obi-Wan's strong arms and welcoming body when his padawan was returned to him.

If that were their motive, they would be sorely disappointed.

Five hundred pairs of eyes or more were in that crowd, all devouring his Obi-Wan. All caressing the taut, oiled body of his padawan. The beauty that was his, Qui-Gon's by right, no one else's to see. No one else's to feel. His. He forced himself to numbness, battling back the temptation to succumb to his jealousy. Qui-Gon Jinn was not a Jedi Master for nothing. Ragged though it had been during the mission to date, at the moment, his control was honed and complete. This was, after all, far less terrible than setting heated iron to his padawan's flesh. The young man upon the block ceased to be Obi-Wan to him.

Qui-Gon watched, indifferent, as the young man was paraded across the stage. When the bidding ceased, then perhaps he would speak. Not before. There was little point in driving up the bids, and he was keenly curious to see what Qal might do.

Obi-Wan was tapped by a whip, and stepping aside, slid into a pose, freezing there for a moment. Qui-Gon's Force-enhanced senses let him hear the auctioneer's command. Slave paces. Obi-Wan knew no such things, and Qui-Gon felt an instant's worry that his padawan might be beaten for his lack of knowledge.

But the pose began to flow into a kata Qui-Gon did not recognize, and the auctioneer, though momentarily surprised, flourished her whip, recommending Obi-Wan's movements to the breathless audience.

Where had his padawan learned this thing? The motions were slow, measured, infinitely graceful. They harnessed, sublimated, and dispersed what seemed to be an infinite tension, transmuting it into an inevitable flow of motion. If he didn't know better, he'd think his padawan was doing an ... an ... Art of Grace. Yes.

But his padawan was not ready, and the Art escaped him; beautiful as it was, harmony was missing from the dance, and the motions Obi-Wan made did not perfectly connect him with the living Force. Qui-Gon could see that here the arc of a sweep should have been longer, the reach greater. There, a stride should have moved him a pace further left. That bow should have been deeper. The energy of the routine needed to be harder, stronger, more mature ....

Qui-Gon's control shuddered as he suddenly understood.

This was not Obi-Wan's own attempt at an Art. This was one he had seen and copied, one someone else had performed, a bigger man, and Obi-Wan was doing it himself, as he should not. This was his Art of Grace. Qui-Gon's. And it was on clumsy display in his padawan's body, before a roomful of slavering buyers, who even now were shouting higher and higher purchase prices at the stunned, delighted auctioneer. Any kata would have done as well, or better. That Obi-Wan had chosen this one was a message. A taunt. An arrogant demand that Qui-Gon admire and bid. Obi-Wan had taken a very private, quiet part of his Master's being and set it contemptuously, and poorly, on display.

The Jedi Master was too proud and angry to bid upon what he already rightfully owned.

The bids began to thin as the price rose. Qui-Gon watched in silent, growing anger as Qal handed his paddle to the slave girl he had brought, let her bid on Obi-Wan. It must be as he had suspected, then. This was a cruel ruse. The last bid was made, Qal's slave holding her paddle aloft in triumph, and the auctioneer acknowledged the sale.

Turning, he walked out into the night.

*****

Qal frowned, watching Qui-Gon slide away. He'd recognized the Jedi partway through the sale, and had fully expected Jinn to buy his padawan. He could not understand why the man had held his silence, let Obi-Wan be bought by someone else ... did he no longer want his slave? Might Qal have him now?

"Pick up the slave and return him to the palace. Secretly." He hurriedly took leave of his girl. Hustling through the crowd rudely, he pursued Qui-Gon Jinn to the exit and beyond.

*****

Obi-Wan moved, remembering his Master's form, striving for it, knowing it was beyond him. Qui-Gon's aura was still silent and uncommunicative. Obi-Wan continued the Art, hearing the cries of women, the rapidly escalating bids.

No male voice had yet spoken.

Perhaps Qui-Gon merely wanted to discover his padawan's value, see what Obi-Wan would sell for. Obi-Wan did not wish to disappoint him, so he threw himself into the routine, overreaching himself, straining muscle and sinew, trying to perfect what he knew he could not do.

Finishing, he was aware of sweat rolling down his body, and he let his eyes open. He stepped to the edge of the stage, standing above the shifting crowd and waiting, body drooping with exhaustion.

No bid came.

Shrieked shrill offers, feminine pandemonium, but none from Qui-Gon. Where was his Master? Obi-Wan reached for Qui-Gon's presence again, beginning to feel desperation -- and felt that presence receding from him, already far from the auction house where he stood.

The color drained from his face and his body seized with cramp and goosebumps from the chill rejection that emanated down their bond when his touch on it was recognized.

He could fight. He could fight, and die, in an attempt to escape, to follow his Master. But what was the point? He had been spurned.

Obi-Wan sank to his knees, and the auctioneer's fist closed, signaling acceptance of the final bid. A woman moved forward through the crowd, accepting a sale ticket. Numbly, the young Jedi let himself be led away.

In an anteroom, the auction lock-collar was removed from him, and bonds placed on him yet again. Obi-Wan, too crushed to resist, nevertheless hated them now, hated the feel of the obdurate metal on his body. He was carefully blindfolded and leashed, another collar locked onto his throat. Not his Master's. Obi-Wan had not even energy to weep or speak to his new Mistress.

He let himself be led through the streets of the city, every noise and sensation impacting his body like a blow.

He was led indoors at last, into a damp chilly room with a stone floor. Obi-Wan hardly cared. He was not sure what he had done to anger Qui-Gon so severely that his Master would leave him. He could escape this, of course, could and would ... but would he then be welcome to return to Qui-Gon?

"Kneel," the woman said, and Obi-Wan knelt miserably in the middle of the floor. He sensed fear as feminine fingers touched him, moving over his arms, loosening the bindings. It puzzled him. Would it not be obvious to anyone that he was beaten, that he had no defiance left in him?

She freed him of all but the tight blindfold. "Dance," she commanded. "The one from the block."

Obi-Wan hesitated. "I can't."

The woman hesitated. "You will," she told him, her voice determined. He felt her sudden nervousness and a flicker of pity formed in his heart. She did not know what she had stepped into.

"Ask any other dance of me," Obi-Wan begged.

"No. Do that one." She padded around him, her feet pattering on the floor. "I have a whip," she said, trailing its blades against his back. "I will use it."

Obi-Wan shrugged and half-heartedly moved himself into the opening position of Qui-Gon's Art. He would fake it, pretend to repeat it, but his limbs would never touch that form again. Never.

He began to move.

"That is not what you did before," she said after a moment.

Obi-Wan stopped, shoulders sinking. "I cannot," he said, his voice breaking with sincerity.

"Do it." She was relentless, and Obi-Wan despaired. He had already lost everything that mattered to him. He deserved the punishment it would be to put his body and mind through Qui-Gon's Art once more.

He found himself assuming the opening position again, reluctantly beginning to move into the second form. And then a booted foot kicked his ankles apart, widening his stance as the Art demanded.

"Continue," the woman spoke as Obi-Wan froze, confused. He had sensed no one else present in the room, but her voice came from the wrong place for her to have kicked him... and how would she have known...?

Obi-Wan automatically stretched his arm into the second arc, and his wrist was caught, dragged outward, his fingers curled by a huge rough palm, no woman's.

A cold lump froze in Obi-Wan's stomach, and he nearly fell.

The third stance, and hard angry hands clamped on his shoulders, demanding the stillness required by the pose. He could not stop trembling beneath those hands, but he tried to flow toward the fourth position, was seized and dragged back, his back bent further forward, his knee folded the slightest fraction more.

He tried again.

This time his arms fell into that grip of ice and iron, pulled outward until Obi-Wan cried out in pain in spite of himself, and the rotation was done for him, into the fifth pose.

Then the sixth, and the hand that curled around his neck, palm to nape, brought the tips of his toes effortlessly from the floor, attaining the height he could not reach. Obi-Wan gasped, tears coming to his eyes as his body screamed its inability to yield to the relentless pressure.

And so he was led, sinews straining, muscles shrieking, every error ruthlessly noted and corrected.

Vaguely, Obi-Wan heard the voice of the woman, weeping her pity for him, from a corner of the room where she watched.

At last the first Form of the Art was finished.

"Now." The voice, so harsh it seemed alien to itself, was before him. Qui-Gon reached, tangling his fingers in the thin leather leash, dragging his padawan forward once more into the first position of the Art of Grace even as Obi-Wan clutched desperately at his sleeve for balance. "Do it right."

And he did.

Obi-Wan reached for the Art, reached for the pain, embraced it. Became what he was not. The Force was his yet, though he might have lost his Master's love, and he used it, stretched himself into it, let it build and exaggerate his movements, let it augment him, providing a pillow of illusory reach and bodily strength.

Qui-Gon stood, eyes hooded and dark, not permitting himself to feel, watching for the slightest error.

There was none.

He gestured the girl forward when Obi-Wan finished and collapsed to the floor. She unlaced the knotted cloth Obi-Wan wore over his eyes, peeling it off him, and he raised his gaze slowly to Qui-Gon.

Obi-Wan took in his Master's dark heavy boots. His tailored trousers. The hem of the stola and the tunics. The broad belt with its small gold buckle. The narrowing gap of the dark brown cloak, the slight V of sturdy chest exposed above the layered tunics. The fringe of his silver-brown hair. His Master had never before seemed so tall. Never before had Obi-Wan felt himself so reluctant to let his eyes complete the upward journey to his eyes.

There was a large bundle of gray cloth crumpled in the corner -- a person, or a heap of rags? He could not be sure. Obi-Wan glanced nervously aside at it and at the woman who had bought him, and was startled to recognize her as one of Qal's favored slaves. Her eyes were red, her face swollen, and she flinched away, her fear warning Obi-Wan just as his head was seized and forced around and up, until ice-cold blue eyes bored into his own.

"You wanted a slave Master." Qui-Gon's voice was flat. "Now you have him."

Obi-Wan struggled to swallow against the dryness in his throat, near-crippling relief battling stark terror in him. Unable to help himself, he lifted his shaking fingers and caught his padawan braid, looping it and pulling the end loosely through the circle, making the bondage knot at his cheek, a silent plea.

A long silence, Qui-Gon's ice-cold eyes judging him minutely, and then the Master lifted Obi-Wan ungently and flung him over his shoulder, hauling him from the room with leisurely strides that nonetheless ate two steps at a time as they climbed, and Obi-Wan realized they were in the palace, began to understand they were heading for Qui-Gon's rooms.

Once there, Qui-Gon placed Obi-Wan on his feet and began jerking at his clothing, discarding it carelessly. Obi-Wan was irresistible. Perspiration had carried away most of the oil and makeup, but enough remained to render his padawan exotically beautiful. Kicking his boots away, Qui-Gon laid his broad fingertips on the boy's fresh brand, watched a shiver run through Obi-Wan involuntarily.

"You want this." Not just the brand, but all of it. His Master's fierceness, his relentless and complete frenzied possession ... wanted to be forced to surrender with total abandon, needed to leave all things Jedi behind both of them and simply belong to Qui-Gon. It was not a question but a truth, and the Master did not bother to listen for the answer he already knew.

The Master's mouth fell on his willing slave's lips, biting them, forcing them open. Obi-Wan tasted blood, and his arms rose of their own volition to twine around Qui-Gon's neck, locking him to the kiss in a stranglehold.

Qui-Gon crushed him to the floor, forcing his arms back. Obi-Wan felt the breath shoved out of his lungs, but he didn't care. Opening himself fully, unresisting, he surrendered everything he had to the ruthless half-stranger who lay atop him.

Obi-Wan was perfectly pliant, boneless. Qui-Gon growled, sinking his teeth into his padawan's neck, listening to the whimper that issued, but Obi-Wan's hips arched into his as the contact galvanized him. Qui-Gon moved his body away from his padawan's, continuing the series of punishing nips and bites, holding Obi-wan down fiercely, forbidding his attempts to touch. He could feel the skin bruising as Obi-Wan struggled against him, body struggling mindlessly to obtain what Qui-Gon withheld.

"Master, my Master!" Obi-Wan moaned, writhing wildly, his hips rising from the floor, back curving into a graceful arc.

"What do you want?" Qui-Gon caught Obi-Wan, held him there, aloft, hand cradled under his padawan's hips, one finger sinking into the seam, waiting there, poised.

"That ... ohhhh ...." Obi-Wan squirmed, trying to shift his hips, but Qui-Gon held him fast, the heel of his free hand pushing Obi-Wan's chin up, immobilizing him.

"What?" Qui-Gon's voice fell to a hoarse rasp.

"You inside me!" Obi-Wan choked.

"Inside you? Why?"

"Because ...." Obi-Wan's throat spasmed as Qui-Gon flicked his fingertip over the soft folded ring. "I need you to ...." He swallowed desperately, frozen where Qui-Gon held him. "Please, Master!"

The broad finger sank deep and Obi-Wan accepted it with a whimper of relief. Qui-Gon let his padawan's back and hips settle to the floor, sliding his hand out, and then thrust and lifted again, raising Obi-Wan's body. He resumed and held the cruel balance, shifting his hand, lightly and briefly grazing the elusive locus of pleasure inside his padawan's body.

"Please, Master!" Obi-Wan begged him immediately.

His padawan had never been a slow student, Qui-Gon reflected, savoring his perfect control, savoring the begging words. "Please what, padawan?" He hardly heard himself use the word, it seemed so synonymous with slavery in that moment between them.

"Please touch me there again." Obi-Wan's pink tongue snaked out to lick dry lips. "Please."

Qui-Gon rewarded him with a swift caress, loosening the pressure on his chin. "And what else do you want, Obi-Wan?"

"Whatever you wish." Obi-Wan used his newfound freedom to squirm against Qui-Gon's seeking fingers, his mouth falling slack, lips parted with pleasure.

Qui-Gon's mouth closed over the young man's nipple, a fierce bite. "What do you want, Obi-Wan?"

"You, Master!" Obi-Wan's voice broke. "Have me!"

"How?" Qui-Gon's voice was a deep growl.

Obi-Wan hesitated, seeing the flicker of growing irritation at the delay. "Like this," he whispered, and moved, rolling to his belly, letting his legs fall to the sides of Qui-Gon's thighs. "Like before, my Master."

A beautifully submissive position, one that would do admirably. Catching the slim, hard-muscled thighs, Qui-Gon drew the young man onto his lap, watching the spine arch, the shoulders shift, the small smooth scar on the skin below the left shoulderblade slide across muscle and bone.

"What do you want now?" he asked, voice tightly controlled, and Obi-Wan turned his head, palms braced flat on the floor, gazing back at Qui-Gon with disbelief, his breath coming harsh and shallow. Fire kindled in his eyes.

"Do it, Master," Obi-Wan breathed, his narrow mouth hard. "Take me. You know I want you. So do it."

It was what he needed to hear. Qui-Gon's hands seized Obi-Wan's shoulders and he dragged his padawan backward, onto his thickness. Obi-Wan moaned, a deep guttural sound, bracing himself on trembling arms, as Qui-Gon's strong hands forced his hips all the way down. Qui-Gon's hard hands circled his pelvis, and his Master rolled backward, leaving Obi-Wan kneeling atop him.

"Move," Qui-Gon commanded, sliding both palms under his padawan's hips.

Obi-Wan obeyed, letting the powerful hands direct him subtly, rising and falling, sweat bursting out all over his skin. He set the pace to please himself, but modified it under Qui-Gon's slight pressure, speeding and slowing, his hands braced on his Master's knees. He was hard, but dissatisfied, aching for the touch of skin and lip on his body.

"Please, Master," Obi-Wan moaned. "Your skin against me."

Qui-Gon raised himself on an elbow, catching his padawan's waist, drawing him back against his chest and then rolling over, burying the smaller man beneath him. Obi-Wan gave a faint cry, his hips tensing as Qui-Gon took over the smooth rhythm and speeded it. Qui-Gon tilted them, catching Obi-Wan's shoulder and bending to nip it fiercely. Obi-Wan gasped, struggling to lay his head back and feel Qui-Gon's hair on his face. The heat was building in him, devastating. He could not believe Qui-Gon had not yet seemed to feel it; the friction was unbearable but the pleasure was worse, rising without quite cresting, close but not close enough ....

"Let me come, Master!" Obi-Wan heard himself beg.

"No." Not yet. Oh, not yet. Something won and something lost, both in that sweet, desperate plea. He was humbling Obi-Wan, destroying his own pride and self-image, but he could not stop. Could. Not. Stop. Force, but he craved Obi-Wan more than air! Wanted him a thousand ways, and for an eternity of nights, but this was the last. It had to be.

And so Qui-Gon could not surrender it, not a moment or its fraction. Not when the future was already broken, and the present was all that remained to him.

He thrust hard, a last savage stab, and expelled himself deep in his padawan's body. Obi-Wan writhed and whimpered, still unsatisfied. Breathing hard, Qui-Gon pulled away, then cradled his student gently in his arms. He'd forgotten how strong he was in the heat of his passion, clearly. Obi-Wan was a mess of bruises and bites, some bleeding, especially the slanted bite across his lips. He'd have to heal them ... but no. No, he could not. The Temple Healers had to bear witness to his padawan's injuries. He could not run the risk that the Council might ignore the seriousness of what he had done ....

"This time is for you, Obi-Wan." Qui-Gon's voice was hoarse with love and sorrow. Bending, hoping to repay some of the pain he had caused, Qui-Gon gently addressed himself to Obi-Wan's pleasure.

He made it last as long as possible, guiltily tasting and re-tasting his padawan, using lips, tongue, and teeth to tease him to the edge of climax again and again, ignoring Obi-Wan's wild, pleading cries until he felt himself trembling on the verge of exhaustion. Then, reaching deeply into his padawan's mind, he sank his mouth all the way down on the young man's erection and pulled up swiftly, stimulating Obi-Wan's pleasure centers hard. His Obi-Wan screamed in surrender, writhing, but Qui-Gon held him still, taking the bitter fluid in his mouth and savoring it, thinking of the pleasure it represented ... and the pain that was to follow.

He gathered Obi-Wan up in his arms. "Come, Obi-Wan," he whispered. "It is time to go home."

"Yes, my Master." Obi-Wan's eyes fluttered open, dazed but adoring, but then a shadow clouded them. "Master?"

"Yes, Obi-Wan?" Qui-Gon rose, found his clothes, and stepped into his leggings wearily. He tucked in his undershirt, found the first tunic.

"How did you know where to find me?" his padawan asked timidly.

Qui-Gon pressed down a flutter of renewed anger as he buckled his belt and stamped his feet into his boots.

"I followed Qal, of course." Impatience roughened his voice. "The two of you were fools. What possessed you to plan that wild charade? Having yourself sold!" Qui-Gon slapped his palm irritably against the wall, turning an accusing stare on the young man.

"Qal?" Obi-Wan remembered Qui-Gon's jealousy of the Prince and was suddenly deeply concerned. "I planned nothing with Qal, Master. Corm drugged me, would have taken me ... he wants to use me to breed Force-user slaves, but I threw off the drug, and he was frightened to return me to you given what I'd witnessed. He tried to purge my mind, and he shipped me off to be sold. He was going to tell you I must have run away ... I knew you wouldn't believe it, but I knew I could escape and win back to you on my own."

Qui-Gon had frozen in place, half into his dark overcloak, staring doubtfully at Obi-Wan, astonishment and anguish shading over his features as he processed the new information. "Then you did not plan for Qal to buy you?" His voice very nearly broke.

"Of course not, Master ... I have not spoken to Qal since ...." Obi-Wan trailed off with dawning fear, his agitation growing by leaps and bounds. "Where is Qal, Master?"

Qui-Gon jerked, startled. Clearly his thoughts had taken an entirely different path. "I left him with the girl, when I carried you here ...." Qui-Gon's lips pinched and he tilted his head, reaching out visibly for a sense of the young Prince. "He followed me from the auction. I was in no mood to hear his prattle; I made him sleep and hauled him back to the compound. He should be lying in the room where you were brought. I'm sure his slave will care for ...." Qui-Gon's forehead pinched into a sudden frown and he exploded into motion, snatching at pants and tunic.

"Master?" Obi-Wan's voice was sharp with alarm, and he struggled to his feet.

Qui-Gon paused only long enough to shove his other arm into his cloak and fling a single word over his shoulder, his hands diving into the chest that held their sabers, coming up with his own settled snugly in his palm. "Corm would have watched to see who bought you." He tossed his padawan's lightsaber across the room, not bothering to glance, knowing Obi-Wan would catch it. "Qal's life may be in danger."

The Jedi Master flew from the room, his padawan in close pursuit.

*****

Qal woke to frantic patting on his cheeks. Blinking blearily, he gazed up into Ara's face, groggily surprised to see genuine worry on the slave girl's lovely features.

"My Master! You wouldn't wake up!" she gasped. "What did that wizard do to you?"

Qal couldn't remember.

He'd gone out to seek Qui-Gon in the aftermath of the auction, trotting to catch up to the taller man's long, ground-eating strides. Putting his hand on Qui-Gon's shoulder, he'd begun to demand why the Jedi Ambassador had abandoned Obi-Wan on the block ... and then, nothing.

"Where's Obi-Wan?" Qal shook his head, struggling to throw off black shrouds of sleep that threatened to enclose him once again.

"I ..." Ara shivered. "I couldn't stop him, Master. Master Jinn was waiting for us when we returned. He ... he made me ask Obi to do the dance from the block, but he wasn't pleased with him."

Ara turned her dark, haunted eyes outward into the room. "He was angry, my Master. He corrected Obi-Wan, made him do it again. Then Obi-Wan tied the bondage knot in his braid to beg mercy and plead love, and Master Jinn carried him away."

Qal's anger helped him muster adrenaline to push away the heavy, false weariness that dogged his heels.

"I found you lying here when they had gone. I've been trying to wake you for almost an hour." Ara buried her face against Qal, seeking comfort.

"I'm well now." Qal soothed the girl absently, taking stock of his body. Jinn's mind powers must extend to mental domination, then. An interesting ability he had not suspected. At least he'd been left undamaged. If the same was not true of Obi-Wan ....

Qal's teeth gritted, and he forced himself to stand in spite of the heaviness of his head. If the Ambassador had injured his innocent slave, there would be hell to pay.

Qal shifted his cloak and robes, settling them. Jinn had been confident, not even bothering to disarm him. He felt his hand clench around the hilt of his sword. That might prove to be a serious miscalculation.

"Ah." A low voice, and a light laugh. "So, Qal."

Corm. The Priest stood at the edge of the room, the stair he'd just descended rising up toward the heart of the palace. Corm's hand lay on the hilt of his sword, and his eyes glittered with triumphant contempt. Qal flickered his eyes at Corm. Apparently there was pressing business to attend before he could settle his grudge with Jinn. Very well.

"So, Corm." Qal declined to give the other man his honorific. "What brings you here?"

"My agents spied you at the auction." Corm bared his teeth. "You made a purchase, I hear. A rather ill-advised one."

Qal could hear the sleek whispering slide of metal as the priest drew his sword, and responded in kind. Ara quickly pulled his cloak from his shoulders so that it would not impede him.

Corm was the more experienced fighter, tough and seasoned. Qal, by contrast, was younger and quicker, but far less trained with the sword. Cautiously, he began to edge around the priest, wanting to get his own back to the corridor that led up into the palace.

"Are you sure you want to kill me, Corm? Who will you use to build and operate the technology you want, to contact the Republic again?" Qal thought fast. "When the Ambassador takes the transport, you'll be left with nothing!"

"I already have what I need. Or I would have, if not for you! Fool, you let the Ambassador follow you, let him retrieve his slave!" Corm's mouth worked silently, his expression twisting with anger. "I will kill you, Qal. Kill you and take your body to the ambassador. I gave the slave a neural purge; they will believe me when I say it was you who tried to steal and sell him."

Qal lunged, fury at Corm's taunt flooding him. Their blades clashed, striking sparks, and they began to circle, testing one another carefully at first, then harder and faster.

*****

The ringing of blades could be heard long before the Jedi came in sight of the room. They found Qal limping on a slashed leg, blood streaming from another cut above his eye, being backed steadily into a corner by the larger warrior.

Obi-Wan gathered like a spring, preparing to fling himself into the room and intercede, but Qui-Gon acted faster.

"STOP!"

The Jedi's Force-enhanced bellow very nearly shook the walls, and dust sifted from the ceiling. Qal and Corm halted in mid-motion, then Qal danced back, out of the priest's range, gasping for breath, exhausted.

Qui-Gon stormed into the room with Obi-Wan hot on his heels.

"Corm of Ria, you have broken diplomatic custom. You have assaulted the Republic's ambassadorial liaison. You traffic in slaves for profit and take pleasure in cruelty!" Qui-Gon thundered. "You will accompany me to the Republic and stand trial for your crimes against my padawan."

"My crimes?" Corm's face was white with fear, but his lip curled with just a trace of genuine amusement. "You branded him. Perhaps that is a crime in your Republic." He laughed with keen amusement, then grounded the point of his sword between two stones in the floor, satisfied that his words had struck home. "I suggest you carefully reconsider, Ambassador."

Qal glared at Qui-Gon contemptuously and returned his stare to Corm. "You will not escape Riadan justice," he promised, raising the tip of his sword again. "For crimes against the state and against my father. I have known of the bitterroot for many years, Corm, I have seen you wind your way into my father's confidence and usurp his throne. You will pay; I shall see to that." He snapped a quick glare to Qui-Gon, who had begun to edge forward. "This is none of your affair, Ambassador!"

"He'll kill him." Obi-Wan's tense whisper prompted Qui-Gon to fling up an arm to hold his padawan back. "Master, we can't let --"

"We can't stop them, Obi-Wan." Qui-Gon's voice was taut with regret. "Qal is right."

Corm laughed at Qui-Gon's words, lunging forward, blade ringing against Qal's once more. In spite of the brief respite, the Prince was exhausted and tiring as the priest beat on his blade, forcing him back, inflicting taunting wounds that slowed him even further. Qal scrubbed his sleeve across his face, wiping blood from his eye, and Qui-Gon could feel his padawan quivering with helpless anger behind the arm the Jedi Master had flung across his chest.

The battle surged back across the floor, Qal stumbling desperately to evade a savage slash, nearly falling over his slave. And suddenly Obi-Wan's eyes focused. Ara held one of the small oil lamps in her palms; before Obi-Wan could blink, she hurled it viciously at Corm.

It glanced off his chest, but shattered on contact with the floor, and the oil spilled. Flame flared, greedily devouring the slick flow, a hellish lake around the two men, tongues of fire rapidly twining up Corm's oil-spattered legs and tunic. He screamed, backpedaling and beating at the flames with his hands, dropping his blade.

Qal pursued, the soles of his boots aflame and curling, his tight leggings starting to singe. Even as Qui-Gon hastily flung up a hand and a deafening explosion of air rang through the room, the shockwave quenching the hungry flames, Qal's sword plunged into Corm's breast and emerged dripping from his back.

Obi-Wan nearly collapsed with relief. Freed of Qui-Gon's restraint, he ran forward, ignoring the smoking hot floor beneath his feet.

"Stop, Obi-Wan!" Qal jerked his sword free, indifferently dropping Corm to the floor. The priest's hands clenched feebly, trying to reach for his wound. "This is not yet finished." Qal's eyes burned over Obi-Wan's shoulder with determination, and he stepped forward proudly, bleeding and scorched.

"I challenge you, Ambassador Qui-Gon Jinn. I would duel you for the right to own your slave."

Obi-Wan's mouth fell open and he stared, shocked.

"There will be no challenge," Qui-Gon's mild, sad voice answered him.

Qal's lip curled with anger, and he lunged, crimson-stained blade leading. "You will fight!"

The snap-hiss of igniting lightsabers was simultaneous and instant. Obi-Wan flung himself forward between the two men, landing on one knee before his Master, blade flashing in a guard over his head, just as Qui-Gon's saber darted forward with a subtle twist. The beams tangled for the briefest instant, the blue nimbus of Obi-Wan's blade singeing the top of his hair at the jar of the impact.

Intercepted twice by the wicked energy blades, Qal's sword clattered to the floor in two pieces, leaving him to stare at the melted hilt in his hand.

"Obi-Wan is free." Qui-Gon powered down his saber, warily watching Qal as he reattached it to his belt. Obi-Wan took a moment more before rising from his protective crouch, his own saber hissing to silence.

Qui-Gon's strong hands came forward to settle on his padawan's neck, and the lock collar clicked, springing open under the pressure of Qui-Gon's single strong finger, the Force triggering its mechanism. He lifted the heavy metal away. "I renounce all ownership claims to the slave known as Obi-Wan Kenobi. I declare him a free citizen of the Republic." Qui-Gon handed the opened circlet of metal to his padawan.

"And I, Qal, Prince of Agus Ria, declare the slave known as Obi-Wan Kenobi free in all the demesnes of Ria," Qal responded immediately, surprised pleasure filling his voice. "Let him from this day be his own man."

Qui-Gon slipped his cloak from his shoulders and folded it around his padawan's slim, bare form. Obi-Wan glanced up at Qui-Gon, covering the broad hand on his shoulder with his own.

The Jedi Master did not return the young man's smile, still gazing at Qal sternly. "Who now will be Priest of the Riadan Temple, your Highness? And what consequences will you face for the deeds you have done here tonight?"

"Fewer than you fear." Qal smiled suddenly. "I am next in line for the priesthood, Ambassador. It would have been mine had I been of age when Corm's predecessor died. And the quarrel? A duel of honor. There will be no consequences from that. Corm's men will either come to my service or sell their swords elsewhere. And there will be no more tainted bitterroot for my father." Qal's face was fiercely triumphant.

"Indeed." Qui-Gon's voice was neutral. "So you will come into Corm's position, then. Will you also hold his chattels?"

Qal nodded curtly. "Chattels that will no longer be mistreated," he stated flatly. "And as High Priest, I will have the power to change the state of slavery on Ria, Ambassador."

"That is well." Qui-Gon nodded. "I fear that as things stand, the trade agreements you wish will not be granted by the Senate."

Qal sighed, deflating visibly. "I had hoped it would not be so."

"Perhaps it will not always be so." Obi-Wan tucked the heavy collar away in a pocket of Qui-Gon's robe and stepped forward, careful not to let the trailing fabric drag through oily ash. "When the changes you wish are made, contact the Jedi again, Qal of Ria. I shall come personally to carry a new report back to the Senate."

"I would be grateful for that, Obi-Wan Kenobi." Qal's eyes brightened.

Qui-Gon made an abortive attempt to speak his disagreement, then halted, drawing back into himself. By that time, Obi-Wan might well have passed his Knighthood trials. Even if he had not ... Qui-Gon Jinn still would have no say in what was done. He folded his arms, forcing his face to display only sheer, utter calm.

Qal placed his hands on Obi-Wan's shoulders and ritually kissed the padawan's cheeks. "It will take many years to change the minds and hearts of men."

"You have the strength and the will." The young Jedi smiled. "I'm sure of it."

Qal hugged him impulsively. "It is past dawn already. Will you stay for my investiture?"

"We cannot do that," Qui-Gon broke in soberly. "We must make our report to the Senate ... and I have other pressing matters to which I must attend."

Obi-Wan withdrew from Qal slightly, and the Prince understood the small motion. "Then you will go with him." Qal frowned slightly at Obi-Wan, worry puckering his brows. "You need not."

"It is what I choose, Qal. I am a Jedi." Obi-Wan shrugged apologetically, but without regret. "I belong with Qui-Gon Jinn. He is my teacher, and I will complete my training. When I return to Ria, I will be a Knight of the Order."

Qal smiled with pleasure. "Perhaps we will spar then, and you will tell me more of the Jedi way."

Obi-Wan returned the smile warmly. "I would be honored." He leaned back toward the Riadan Prince and returned the ceremonial kiss.

Qui-Gon cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Your Highness, I feel it best if we leave immediately. I would not care for the Jedi to be implicated in Corm's death."

"Of course." Qal bowed, regal in spite of his tattered condition, and ushered them from the room, Ara in tow.

**Part 4 -- Homecoming**

After he saw Obi-Wan fed and settled into his bunk, warmly clad and covered for a period of quiet rest, Qui-Gon slipped away to the external comm, contacting the Jedi Temple.

"This had better be important, Master Jinn." Mace Windu was irate, having been woken from sleep.

"It is. Obi-Wan and I are returning from Ria with the information the Senate requires. And I wish to submit myself for discipline."

His announcement gave the Councilor pause. "On what grounds?"

"Physical abuse and sexual molestation of my padawan learner." Qui-Gon's voice was chill, almost disinterested. "Have healers awaiting our arrival."

"You will be met," Mace replied simply, clicking off the communication without further notice.

Qui-Gon sat back, eyes fixed vaguely on the starfield before him.

"Master?" Obi-Wan's voice came hollowly through the corridor, and the young man appeared, clothed in sleep tunic and leggings but again swathed in Qui-Gon's borrowed cloak, bare feet nearly silent on the deckplates.

Qui-Gon rose, retreating toward his own newly-chosen quarters, carefully ensuring that he did not brush up against the younger man in the hall. A worried frown pinched between Obi-Wan's eyes, and he reached to stop his Master. Qui-Gon hesitated for an instant, indecisive, his eyes surveying the damage that he had done to Obi-Wan's mouth and neck.

His padawan's skin was hot against his arm, burning through the sleeve of his tunic, the innocent touch perverted by Qui-Gon's lustful response to it. He started to speak, thought better of it, and closed his mouth again, lids and lashes hooding his eyes, hiding from the love in the worried gaze focused on him. He brushed the concerned arm away abruptly and took his refuge in solitary meditation.

*****

The unwieldy transport, far too large for its single pair of passengers, settled to the landing platform, its hatch opening and levering downward for disembarking. Two figures awaited its occupants, an incongruous match of tall and short, both unstirring, patient.

Then the two they awaited emerged from the ship, the disparity in height between them not so great but also apparent. Both were cloaked and hooded, stepping into the light of Coruscant. The shorter one stood with head bowed, face hidden, a pace behind the taller, darker-clad man.

Windu stepped forward and his fingertips began to move the hood to expose the hidden face of the smaller figure, but the larger man's arm intercepted his, pushing it away with more than a hint of anger. As the empty ship behind rose and pivoted away gracefully in response to the Temple Autocontroller's commands, the smallest of the four Jedi gathered on the platform stepped forward, looking up into the hood at the hidden features.

"Come, padawan Kenobi." Yoda led Obi-Wan away.

"Letting him accept the mission was a terrible mistake." Mace Windu spoke slowly, watching them go. "Wasn't it?"

Qui-Gon brushed past him in silence. There was no need to restate the obvious. He stood still on the platform, sleeves tucked into his cloak, watching with deep, terrible grief as his padawan was taken from him. Obi-Wan glanced back for a moment, uncertain, seeming to sense that something was wrong, but Yoda's gentle urgings prompted him to continue. Soon they were hidden from view.

"Come to the High Spire, Master Jinn." Mace ordered, voice impassive. "The Council awaits."

*****

"I call a Quorum. The Jedi Council is now in session." Mace's voice silenced the assembly with perfect authority, and Qui-Gon found himself the target of eleven piercing gazes, excepting only Yoda's. As far as Qui-Gon knew, the small Master was still with Obi-Wan. Hopefully Yoda was personally seeing to it that the young man was receiving the attention he deserved from the healers.

It would go harshly for Qui-Gon without Yoda here to moderate Windu's sternness, but Qui-Gon embraced the bitterness to come, knowing he would deserve every ounce of it and more.

"Your mission was a failure?" Windu inquired.

"In part." Qui-Gon shrugged slightly. "Obi-Wan can tell you far more specific details than I. I merely negotiated trade agreements that will now, I believe, prove worthless." Qui-Gon lifted his eyes to Windu's defiantly. "Why do you skirt the real issue at hand?" Qui-Gon's voice rang with challenge. "I submit myself to discipline and waive the right of trial. I treated Obi-Wan as a full slave on Ria. I beat him, branded him, used him sexually. He was dependent on my care, and I failed to protect him."

"We will hear more details before making our decision," Windu stated with brittle calm.

The chamber door opened with a low hiss, and a ripple ran through the council. Mace subsided in his seat. Qui-Gon did not need to turn to know that Obi-Wan and Yoda had entered, only slightly late to the session. Yoda made his way to his empty chair and Obi-Wan moved to Qui-Gon's left side, as was his custom. Qui-Gon's eyes narrowed. Obi-Wan should have visited the healers, but they had not taken long enough; he must have refused treatment. Why had Yoda not insisted?

"Padawan Kenobi." Mace inclined his head coolly.

"Master Windu." Obi-Wan bowed slightly in response.

"Why are you hooded in our presence, padawan? We have heard that you were injured. Remove your cloak and tunics so that we may determine whether you need the healers."

"I must object to this treatment of my padawan," Qui-Gon intervened. "His privacy has been thoroughly violated during our mission. There is no need for further --"

"He will not stand hooded before the council," Mace interrupted with a flat coolness that belied the cut of his words. "And since you may have an interest in seeing that the extent of his injuries is hidden, your words will not be considered."

"I reported his injuries myself!" Qui-Gon heard himself rasp. "I also requested he be met by healers, not dragged immediately before the Council. My padawan requires care."

Windu ignored the Jedi Master's protests and turned his stare on Obi-Wan. "Padawan, do you require urgent medical attention?"

"No, Master Windu." Obi-Wan's voice was hushed.

"Then remove your hood."

Obi-Wan reluctantly reached up and pulled back his cowl, pulling its drape close about his neck. Dissatisfied, Windu gestured and Obi-Wan slowly pushed it back further, revealing his throat from chin to the hollow of his collarbone. Qui-Gon sighed.

Obi-Wan's glance flickered guiltily away from Qui-Gon as he heard the resigned sound. The dark slant of a partly-healed bite was clearly identifiable across his cut, swollen lips. His neck was covered with bruises, some of them beginning to yellow, some with the marks of teeth also visible. Windu rose and stepped forward, catching Obi-Wan's hand and pushing back his sleeve. The raw mark of a wrist restraint was visible, along with faint rounded bruises that Qui-Gon knew were the prints of his own fingers.

Windu drew back the left side of Obi-Wan's tunics by the breadth of a hand, revealing four scabbed scratches that extended down under the fabric, then stepped around the padawan, stripping back his clothing to expose his chest and back. The whip weals there had faded, but Mace passed his palm over Obi-Wan's skin and a soft red glow formed where recently traumatized skin was revealed by his probe. Depa Billaba drew in a sympathetic breath, the only sound that broke the silence in the council chamber.

"Padawan Kenobi." Windu's voice was a dangerous rumble. "Who inflicted these injuries on your body?"

Qui-Gon tasted blood from his own bitten tongue. Trust Mace to force Obi-Wan into an accusation. This had been inevitable following his own report, but it hurt nonetheless.

Obi-Wan answered calmly, but evasively. "They were a result of the demands of our mission and were unavoidable."

"You will answer." Windu did not relent, but Obi-Wan lifted his head and fixed his eyes on a point to the left of that probing stare, refusing to speak. "You will answer, or you will be put from the Temple," Windu promised coldly.

Obi-Wan's jaw squared and his gaze did not falter.

"Who did these things to you, Obi-Wan Kenobi?" Ki-Adi-Mundi leaned forward, more placid than Windu, in spite of the fact that he was only a Knight. "Do not fear truth, padawan."

Before matters could go further, Qui-Gon stepped between Windu and his silent padawan, jostling the dark man back a step, forcing Windu to look up to meet his eyes. "It was I. As you know already." Qui-Gon turned, setting his fingers to demonstrate their perfect alignment with the long scratches that trailed down Obi-Wan's chest, then easily laying the pads of his fingers against a set of five wide-spaced oval bruises on Obi-Wan's arm. "These you see, and those you have not." He reached for Obi-Wan's belt. The padawan's hand clenched on Qui-Gon's wrist hard, but he had not the strength to stop his Master, who pushed the belt down, finger hooking in the waistband of Obi-Wan's trousers and causing the cloth to dip below his hipbone, exposing the angry red puckers of the healing brand, a letter J.

Only Windu and Yoda showed no surprise, and a muffled roar of outrage briefly orbited the Council chamber.

"What does it stand for, Obi-Wan?" Qui-Gon asked, his voice soft but penetrating, silencing the Council.

Obi-Wan's face was angry, betrayed, stricken with grief and fear, and he took a long moment to try to compose himself. "Jedi," he answered, his belief that the answer was a lie jangling in the living Force so loudly that a babe swaddled in the crèche might have sensed it, the answer he truly believed tingling in the air behind it like the faintest echo of a scream.

Qui-Gon reached and drew up Obi-Wan's tunics, settling them back over his shoulders and pulling them together in the front, helping his padawan put his arms back through the tangled mass of sleeves. Obi-Wan's eyes sought Qui-Gon's then, his expression mingling apology and fierce devotion, in spite of the moment of anger at his betrayal.

Qui-Gon was aware of the intensity of the spark that would leap if he let his eyes meet Obi-Wan's, and he refused to permit it to happen. That was all the Council needed, to see that Obi-Wan had been so thoroughly corrupted by this failure -- they might decree that the boy had been so damaged he could no longer continue his training, and set him out of the Order. Finishing, he stood aside, wrapping his arms about himself with a good imitation of his customary serenity.

"Padawan Kenobi." Mace persisted, a stern question, and Obi-Wan flinched at it, sensing what was to come. "Did your Master initiate sexual relations with you during the course of your mission?"

Obi-Wan's mouth worked, but no sound came out. He stared at the tile floor for a long moment, weighing his options. There was nowhere to go, no way to escape. If only Qui-Gon had talked to him instead of retreating into his quarters, shutting Obi-Wan out throughout the whole of the journey to Coruscant. Now things were shattering, an avalanche of disaster shredding Obi-Wan's life, and there was only one answer he could give -- his previous lie had only made matters worse.

Obi-Wan cleared his throat, licking dry lips. "It was necessary ... and I was willing." He raised a defiant glare to Windu. He knew the answer to that, but his response was all he could give; even though he might have chosen to accept the intimacy, Qui-Gon had been tacitly forbidden by the Code to pursue it.

The roar of discussion rang through the chamber again, only Yoda and Mace remaining silent. Qui-Gon stepped further forward, his sharp voice cutting through the commotion.

"I believe that it has been proven to your satisfaction that my padawan has been abused, and that I was the one who did it. If your prurient curiosity is satisfied, perhaps we may return to the point of this briefing, so that it may be over the sooner and he may receive the care he deserves." Chill anger built in him, invading his voice, but he could not help it. "I believe he has information that the Republic would find more useful than the location of a few bruises," Qui-Gon pointed out and fell silent, his expression steely.

"More than a few," Windu commented dryly. "Obi-Wan, were you engaged in a sexual relationship with Master Jinn prior to the incidents that occurred during the mission to Ria?"

Obi-Wan glared at Windu openly, feeling his eyes sting, but he was too proud to shed the tears that threatened. "I will not answer that question. It has no bearing on what happened --"

"No," Qui-Gon rumbled. "We were not previously intimate."

"Then ..." Mace began, but he silenced in deference to a wave from Yoda.

"Has a point, Obi-Wan does," Yoda observed, his first words since entering the room. "And Master Jinn as well. What say you of Ria's petition to join the Republic, Obi-Wan Kenobi?"

Obi-Wan again flickered an involuntarily nervous glance at Qui-Gon, then realized the Council might misinterpret it not as his wish for reassurance, but as fear that Qui-Gon might punish him for saying the wrong thing.

"I do not believe they should be allowed to join, Master Yoda." Obi-Wan gathered his courage and his dedication to duty. "Their presentation of the religious aspects of slavery was misleading, at best. I saw persons confined and kept in tiny kennels not long enough for them to stretch out their bodies. Slaves are only fed at their Masters' whims." Obi-Wan was glad he had lost but little weight as he noticed Windu giving him a shrewd and judging look. "Beatings" -- he swallowed -- "are regular and unavoidable for slaves. Even the slightest infraction, such as looking a free person in the face, may earn a slave a flogging. I committed that infraction and the law demanded I be beaten. I was more than fortunate that Master Qui-Gon took over the task; he shielded me from a savage thrashing."

"Continue your official report, padawan," Mace interrupted silkily.

Obi-Wan did, telling about the implements of torture he had seen, sanitation practices, discipline, observed slave workload, the auction at which he had been sold, the restraints he had seen and been placed in by guards, the objectification of the slaves everywhere on Ria. Lastly, and most importantly, he told of how Corm had planned to rape him and obtain his genetic material to attempt to impregnate a slave with it and breed Force-slaves.

He finished by recounting Qal's succession to the Priesthood and his plans for reform, then bowed, concluding his report.

In spite of himself, Qui-Gon felt his heart swell with pride. Obi-Wan was right, and he had held himself together, completing his part of their mission in a way that Qui-Gon himself had not and could not. He should have suspected Corm's plot himself long before Obi-Wan had told his Master the truth of everything that had happened in his absence.

Qui-Gon could not agree with his padawan publicly without risking the undermining of Obi-Wan's authority, not while he was discredited as he was in the Council's eyes at this moment, and so he remained silent, nodding slightly only when eyes of sympathetic council members glanced in his direction. There were precious few.

"Agree with Obi-Wan I do," Yoda stated at last, and his announcement met with a murmur of approval. "Advise the Senate we will to cancel trade negotiations with Ria on the grounds of uncivilized conduct and unjustified cruelty to sentient beings. Re-evaluate them we will at a later time."

Obi-Wan bowed deeply at the honor, padawan pigtail sweeping the mosaic-tiled floor. "Thank you, Master Yoda." He raised himself with pride, glancing at Qui-Gon. "I have one thing left to report, Masters." He drew himself to his full height. "I fully renounce any claim I may stand to place against my Master, Qui-Gon Jinn, for what happened to me during our mission. I will oppose any action against him. Everything that occurred between us ..." Obi-Wan turned to Qui-Gon, his eyes bright with unshed tears, his expression filled with soft love, "was provoked by the demands of the mission and by my own behavior, and was done with my complete consent and agreement. There is no breach of faith between us. No abuse has occurred."

Qui-Gon ached to taste that look of love on his padawan's bruised lips, but he could not. Never again. He held himself perfectly still and impassive until Obi-Wan looked away, his attention drawn by Mace's voice.

"You are yet a padawan, Kenobi." Mace tapped his lip irritably with a long finger. "Consenting to a relationship with a Knight or Master is not yours to do. It is his" -- Mace fixed Qui-Gon with a forbidding stare -- "to decline to offer. Particularly under such circumstances, when your decision to consent was based on necessity, not free choice."

"Under the circumstances you describe, Master Windu," Obi-Wan objected politely but adamantly, "for either of us to decline would have caused our mission to fail, and perhaps cost one or both of us our lives. And I repeat: I was fully aware of what I was doing, and completely willing." Again the padawan bowed, stepping back from the center of the circle.

Qui-Gon sighed mentally. Obi-Wan trod fast and loose with the truth, walking a knife-edge around its borders, a disturbing tactic that he suspected helped his Master but little in Mace Windu's view. Neither of their lives had been directly threatened, though perhaps they might have been ....

"You are dismissed, padawan Kenobi," Windu intoned solemnly, and Obi-Wan cast a reluctant glance at Qui-Gon as he turned and slowly left the room.

"Qui-Gon Jinn," Mace began, but Qui-Gon interrupted him before the third word was well out of his mouth.

"I submit myself to the discipline of the Council. Obi-Wan's injuries are a result of grievous breaches in my self-control, unbecoming a Master." Qui-Gon heard his voice flowing like disinterested ice. "I request that his memories of the mission be removed so that he may continue his training without their detrimental influence. Under a new Master, of course." Qui-Gon forestalled Windu's interruption. "It is my final decision as Obi-Wan's Master that he be completely healed of all that was done to him physically, particularly the brand that was placed on his body. Pay for the bacta with the credits waiting in my account."

Qui-Gon reached beneath the fold of his cloak, palm curling around the cool hilt of his lightsaber, and unclipped it from his belt. "My Master." He bowed before Yoda, and laid the weapon in the small Jedi's lap.

Qui-Gon turned and left the room, cloak billowing in his wake.

*****

"Kenobi loves Qui-Gon Jinn. Too much, perhaps."

"Young he is. Impressionable. Prone to worship his Master."

"He's confused, protecting Qui-Gon. He doesn't fully understand what was done to him."

"Perhaps. Hard to see. Easier it would have been if our assumptions had been correct."

"I think further investigation is in order before we act."

"Yes. Reserve our judgment we must, and watch Kenobi's actions. Let them serve to prove his heart and understanding. Show, they will, whether he was victimized or not."

*****

After spending the time to make a few small arrangements, glad that word of his resignation had not yet filtered far down the hierarchy, Qui-Gon moved through the Temple gardens, oblivious to their peace and beauty. He drew his cowl over his head to afford him privacy. This mission had been harder for him than any other he'd ever undertaken, for it had required him to set aside the mantle of a Jedi, and then had taken away his chance to return to what he was at heart. And what was to come would be harder still, for it required him to bear the punishment for what he had done. Required him to give up his padawan, required him to remove himself from Obi-Wan's life as the price of a few hours of rough pleasure.

It was not worth it.

He glanced up, senses alert to the presences around him. Yes, there was Obi-Wan, walking obliquely into the gardens with Master Yoda at his side. Qui-Gon paused in the shadow of a tall tree, watching his pad-- young Kenobi. The correction hurt like nothing he had ever felt. Yoda's serene gaze centered on Qui-Gon for the merest instant, then returned to Obi-Wan as he listened to the boy's words, nodding, heavy-lidded eyes never revealing Qui-Gon's presence.

Obi-Wan wore his Jedi robes as though they were a part of him, and that was as it should be. The visible evidence of their mission had not yet faded from his face, though he no longer wore his hood raised and pulled forward. Had he still not visited the healers?

Worse, the young man's body beneath those masking robes ... there was yet the seduction of the pleasure slave in the movement of his hips, the awareness of his own sensuality radiating from him unconsciously. He was still the corrupt thing Qui-Gon had made him, walking as though he felt the touch of his Master's hands and eyes even in the company of Yoda -- even when he thought Qui-Gon to be far away. The way his hips moved ... it seemed he deliberately advanced his brand before him when walking, as though his body were a showcase for it, as though it were the center of him.

"Well you did, young one," Yoda's voice filtered into Qui-Gon's hearing. "A difficult mission it was. Well you both did, unprepared as you were to face what lay inside you."

"I do not believe my Master shares your opinion," Obi-Wan sighed. "The things that happened on Ria burden him unduly."

Qui-Gon's eyes narrowed, and he listened intently to the conversation. Obi-Wan still referred to Qui-Gon as his Master -- Yoda had not yet told him of Qui-Gon's resignation. There might be time yet to make his departure without the painful scene he had dreaded.

"Qui-Gon feels guilt and fear." Yoda's eyes flickered across the hidden Jedi Master serenely, and Qui-Gon knew Yoda was well aware he heard each word. "Issued orders Qui-Gon has for you to visit the healers. Choose you may to have your memory of this mission suppressed." Yoda paused to gauge the look of horror on Obi-Wan's face, not needing to see the padawan shake his head in a vehement refusal. "Strict orders Master Jinn has given for your brand to be removed, Obi-Wan Kenobi. Wish you either of these things?"

"No, Master Yoda." Obi-Wan's voice was firm and decisive. It sent a pang of despair through Qui-Gon. It was a part of what he had needed to know, what he had come here and lingered to learn, though the answer did not satisfy him.

"If you will not, then you will not." Yoda nodded, seeming to accept Obi-Wan's judgment. "Your decision it is to make now, Obi-Wan Kenobi. Not Qui-Gon Jinn's."

Qui-Gon felt anger spike through him. He resented Yoda's failure to support his recommendation, Yoda's refusal to accept that Qui-Gon knew what was best for his pada-- for Obi-Wan. But the small Master was continuing.

"Cautious you must be, young one. Little it changes that the fear you face is not your own. The path to the Dark Side it still may be," Yoda mused. His eyes slid over Qui-Gon again. "If strong your Master cannot be, strong you must be in his place."

Qui-Gon turned abruptly, melting away into the shadows. He had already heard more than he wanted.

Yoda sighed, ears drooping, and he moved to stand before Obi-Wan, moving slowly to ensure that Qui-Gon would be out of earshot before he continued. He pursed his lips, extending a clawed finger to tap the boy's hidden brand. "This your center is not," he reproved. "Need it, you do not. Ask him for it, you should not have done. Wear it you may as you choose, but ..." Yoda tilted his head back, imposing in spite of his stature, "... know you should that Qui-Gon Jinn wears this mark also, on his heart. But to him, it means not that he loves you. To him, it means his failure."

Obi-Wan slid his hands into the sleeves of his robes defensively, troubled. "I ... Master Yoda, the mark I wear is symbol, not center, and it has nothing to do with failure. My very being, my spirit, my life, the Force around me, all have been marked by my Master's influence. But my body ..."

"Bears Qui-Gon's influence as well!" Yoda contradicted him sharply, before he could continue. "Think you that your physical training has not changed it? And who has directed that training, Obi-Wan Kenobi?"

Obi-Wan hesitated, humility returning to him. "My Master," he admitted softly.

Yoda nodded his head with satisfaction, motioning Obi-Wan to join him at a nearby bench with a convenient stone placed at its side. He settled himself slowly, and Obi-Wan took his stick, helping him prop it. Yoda looked up at Obi-Wan serenely. "So, young padawan. Branded your Master's heart with failure you have, and broken he is. Like you this?"

Obi-Wan swallowed hard, shaking his head. "No. I only wanted ...."

Yoda's impatient huff silenced him, as the small Master waved a palm, dismissing Obi-Wan's wants for the moment. "Not your fault is all of this. Qui-Gon Jinn bears blame also. Never has he opened himself to you as he should, I think." Yoda sighed, and paused, thinking, before he continued. "This I must know. Hear your Master's thoughts do you, Obi-Wan?"

"Yes, Master Yoda. Rarely, in time of great need and danger." Obi-Wan hesitated. "I thought that was typical of all Jedi."

Yoda's lips thinned. "Not typical is that for Master and padawan, and responsible it is for Qui-Gon's failure." He met Obi-Wan's startled frown with calm. "Not always does the training bond bring thought communication between Master and padawan learner. Sometimes well it is, for each, that privacy. Sometimes not. Amazing it is that your bond with Qui-Gon is so strong, when open to your mind he is not. Surprised I am to hear of the silence between you."

Sometimes it was well. Sometimes not. Yoda's meaning was clear -- it was not well this time. The misunderstanding and anguish that Qui-Gon had apparently endured could have been overcome instantly -- indeed, would never have had cause to arise -- if that simple and deep touch of minds had existed, and if Qui-Gon had understood that Obi-Wan perceived no abuse. The young Jedi licked dry lips, anguished suddenly by the revelation of unrealized potential that lay deliberately concealed in his bond with his much-loved Master. He had never suspected their bond might be deeper.

"Xanatos's fault that silence is, and Qui-Gon's." Yoda's words were heavy with regret. "The shadow of a turned padawan lies dark over a Master's soul." The sleepy eyes studied Obi-Wan. "Hard to trust it becomes. Hard to love, both self and others. Thought I did that Qui-Gon had overcome this weakness."

Obi-Wan bit his lip, struggling suddenly against tears. Yoda had laid his needs and Qui-Gon's inability to meet them bare with a few simple words.

Yoda waited for him to regain his composure, hands folded placidly in his lap.

"Mean that Qui-Gon loves you, a scar does not, and lust does not." Yoda paused again, eyes narrowing slightly. "Listen you must, Obi-Wan Kenobi. To words, to actions, to signs unspoken. Listen not to need and fear, for blind you they can. The quiet of the Force will tell you what you must know and what you must do." Yoda reached for his stick and levered himself up. "Sometimes easier it is to be a slave than to be a Master," Yoda observed. He hobbled away, leaving Obi-Wan on the bench in the stillness of gathering twilight, pondering those unexpected words.

*****

Obi-Wan spent the next few hours meditating on what Master Yoda had told him, painfully working through the tangled mass of his emotions, finally deciding on the course of action that seemed best to him. Drawing up the cowl of his hood, he made a brief stop at the healers' chambers for treatment of his bruises before proceeding to the living quarters he shared with Qui-Gon.

Obi-Wan knew the moment his palm keyed the door that his Master had gone.

The young Jedi raced through the suite of rooms, hoping against hope that he was wrong, but he was not. It was not the neatly made bed in the large back room or the diminishment in the number of leisure cloaks and tunics that usually hung unused in his Master's closet, or even the absence of several small but cherished personal mementos -- including one of Obi-Wan's own.

The young man paused, breathing hard, his fingertips laid in the empty space that had held his favorite holo of himself and Qui-Gon together -- the only one where they were touching. It had happened on his seventeenth naming day, which had coincided with a ritual of festivities and competition in the padawan gardens. Obi-Wan had won nearly every competition that day, and Bant had captured the several-second holo for him just after he had won the Rite of Wisdom by providing Yoda with the best answer for a difficult koan.

In a rare moment of emotional expressiveness, Qui-Gon had moved behind Obi-Wan and embraced him and hugged him tightly, smiling down at his padawan with pride. Obi-Wan had gazed up and over his shoulder at his Master joyfully, a smile of pure happiness and wonder dawning on his face, and their eyes had locked together for a long moment of shared happiness, their faces so close they might easily have kissed. For a moment Obi-Wan had almost thought Qui-Gon might actually kiss him and he was not at all sure the idea had not also occurred to his Master. Certainly it showed in both their expressions, a moment of rare love communicated between them.

But not even the absence of that holo was the conclusive proof that his Master had permanently withdrawn himself. Obi-Wan had known Qui-Gon was gone as soon as he realized that the aura of his Master's life was gone from this place. Such a thing could only be done deliberately, and Obi-Wan knew it had been removed by the only one who could do so as swiftly as thought and as irrevocably as death: Qui-Gon himself.

One of Obi-Wan's favorite memories, taken from him as though he no longer deserved to have it, and his Master, gone. He strangled the miserable sob in his throat. He would have given a thousand such memories to keep Qui-Gon at his side. He should have accepted the mind purge as Qui-Gon had requested. Would his Master have stayed with him then?

Such speculation changed nothing. While he had spoken with Yoda, while he had pondered the teachings and the follies of the mission past, his Master had withdrawn.

Obi-Wan was white-faced, stunned into immobility. For the first time in their many years of service together, Qui-Gon had lied to him. Obi-Wan's fist clenched as he remembered Qui-Gon's promise, made on the morning of the day they arrived at Ria. He could still hear Qui-Gon's quiet, soothing voice, saying 'I will protect you, my padawan. Now, and always.' He had taken it to mean that Qui-Gon would always be there for him, that when the mission was over they would return to being the Jedi they were. He had believed that Qui-Gon could be relied on to accept and integrate the events of the mission, to accompany Obi-Wan on the path of healing and adapting, to resume and strengthen their relationship as Jedi.

That belief was what had given him the strength to endure, the confidence to remain himself even in slavery ... and now, the promise was taken from him and broken. His anguish threatened to choke him, but he could not give in to it. There is no passion. There is serenity.

Instead of meaning his words wholly, it seemed Qui-Gon had twisted them to suit himself. He'd meant that when they returned, he would protect his padawan by removing his influence from Obi-Wan's life. Why? Because he'd had sex with Obi-Wan, perhaps even without loving him? Surely that could not be so, but Yoda had told him that Qui-Gon was weak and he must be strong in his Master's stead. The small Master had revealed that Qui-Gon felt guilt and fear, and that Obi-Wan's brand was a scar of failure on his heart, that Qui-Gon's spirit was broken. But then ... if Obi-Wan's pain hurt Qui-Gon so badly, then Qui-Gon must love him, at least as a student.

Which Obi-Wan had known from the first and had refused to accept as sufficient.

The forsaken padawan's mind raced. Qui-Gon could have felt that he had failed Obi-Wan in a variety of ways. He knew his Master's logic; Qui-Gon no doubt justified his actions with the thought Obi-Wan would be harmed more by his presence than by his absence. But Obi-Wan knew better. Qui-Gon had failed only in giving in to fear and in abandoning him now, instead of working with him to overcome what had happened between them, instead of letting them each recognize their own mistakes and work together to overcome them.

Guilt savaged him. He had failed Qui-Gon far worse than his Master had failed him. Obi-Wan had failed to love unconditionally, and his neediness had driven his Master away. He had thought only of his own wants and allowed Qui-Gon to be destroyed by them. He had not taken the full picture into account. In providing for himself and providing for their mission, he had lost Qui-Gon ....

His fists clenched with furious misery. He would make amends. He would. There was no time to wallow in misery and placing blame. Reminiscence was pointless; Obi-Wan must move to influence the future.

Yoda had intimated that Qui-Gon was menaced by the Dark Side, and he was right. Obi-Wan knew what he must do.

He scrabbled for his comlink, accessing Yoda's private channel. "Master Yoda, my Master has left the temple. I must -- "

"Resigned from the Jedi has Qui-Gon Jinn," Yoda's unsurprised voice greeted him immediately. "In your bags you will find his lightsaber. Waste time you do, padawan. Waste no more. Granted is your travel pass, and the finances that you will need for this mission."

A mission. Obi-Wan suppressed the flare of pride and amusement that flickered in him at the word. He could sense Yoda's approval of his decision to act, and it calmed him, centering him. "I will return with him," he promised, suddenly certain of the truth of it. Somehow, he would do this thing.

"See that you do." Yoda terminated the communication calmly.

It only remained to determine where Qui-Gon might go. Obi-Wan sprinted for his computer terminal to requisition transport departure manifestos for the past six hours.

**Part 5 -- Restoration**

Three months. Three months of cautious probing, careful mind touches, computer hacking, and space travel. Three months of uncovering the scent and trail of a determined Jedi Master, of intuition and guesses and almost nonexistent clues. Three months of Qui-Gon Jinn flying before him as though the hounds of hell were on his heels. Three months of mistakes and backtracking, of false leads and deliberately planted misguiding information. No one else could have followed this trail, Obi-Wan suspected. No one but himself and perhaps Master Yoda, and surely no one who did not have a deep personal connection with the Jedi Master and an intimate knowledge of his way of thinking. 

But even a Jedi Master could not run forever. Even a Jedi Master must eventually believe that he had run far and fast enough, and settle to ground. 

And so here Obi-Wan was, gazing quietly out of a small viewing portal overlooking Cerea, a small blue-green planet orbiting an unexceptional yellow sun. It could have been one of a thousand worlds, a thinly settled agrarian civilization. Obi-Wan knew of it from his early training. Councilor Ki-Adi-Mundi had been born and found there. The Cereans lived in harmony and were friendly to Jedi, though the world was not a formal part of the Republic. 

It was an ideal pastoral location, a perfect and unexceptional place to retreat and fade into obscurity. One might live easily there on a minimum of labor and wealth. One would not be disturbed or questioned by the peaceful natives. One could fade into the woodwork of the high ratio of Force-sensitive minds on Cerea, distinctive aura blunted and masked by a hundred thousand others. 

The one thing Qui-Gon Jinn could not do on Cerea was escape Obi-Wan Kenobi. 

Turning, the Jedi left the small portal and prepared his belongings for landing. Another week perhaps, a month at most. The chase was nearing its end. Transports leaving Cerea were few and far between. It would not be so easy to flee this time. 

***** 

A large, rawboned man in faded blue laborer's tunic and ragged gray trousers paid for his purchases silently, apparently unaware that he was being watched. A cloaked observer stood perfectly still but unconcealed in a recessed alcove across the marketplace from the fruit vendor's stall. His arms were folded, his deep cowl hiding all but his narrow mouth, a square jaw dusted with a long stubble of youthful beard, and a dangling tail of braided hair. 

Tension was almost tangible in the air of the marketplace, and most passersby instinctively steered clear of the two men. Some of the more sensitive individuals avoided passing between them, reluctant to break the line of that silent scrutiny and the resentful, passive-aggressive reaction to it. 

Finishing his transaction, the large man in rough work clothes pocketed one fruit and bit into another. A trail of juice trickled over his lips, running into his short beard. The cowled figure's tongue stole out, almost wistfully licking his narrow, sensual lips, his hidden eyes tracing the path of the glistening drop of sweetness. 

The large man roughly scrubbed his face with his dirty sleeve and abruptly stepped away from the stand. Inevitably, the cowled figure quickly pushed away from his niche to pursue. 

He caught up swiftly and settled into step with the taller man, walking at his left shoulder, a single pace behind. That earned him a brief glare, and the tall man lengthened his stride, but his pursuer kept pace with quiet determination. 

There was nowhere left for Qui-Gon to go. Obi-Wan had run him to ground. 

He had sensed his padawan's presence only moments before he had seen Obi-Wan awaiting him in the marketplace of the small village where he had chosen to settle. He supposed that this meeting had been inevitable. Particularly after he had given up trying to hide, given up fleeing, in the hopes that his determined evasions had finally succeeded. 

He dug into his pocket, producing the extra fruit he had bought, flicking it over his shoulder without a glance, hearing the soft slap of its capture and the crunch of teeth through its crisp skin. Despite his generosity, he was not best pleased. 

Qui-Gon pondered the phrasing of the first inevitable question, but his quiet shadow anticipated and forestalled it. "I'm on a special mission at the orders of the head of the Jedi Council," Obi-Wan informed him, pleasantly enough. "I am to see that ... a few lost items ... are returned to their proper owner. The Council was dismayed that one of their most prominent Jedi Masters left Coruscant in haste, forgetting his padawan and his lightsaber ...." 

Qui-Gon whirled, his face a thundercloud. "I own nothing that is the concern of the Council or yourself!" His eyes flickered with genuine anger. "I would be left in peace." 

Obi-Wan met the stormy eyes firmly. "Your opinion is not shared by the Council. They believe peace would best be served by your resumption of your duties." Obi-Wan easily flicked the core of the eaten fruit into a waste receptacle. He deliberately ignored the first half of Qui-Gon's statement. 

Qui-Gon scrubbed his hand over the crown of his hair, weary with frustration. "And were I to accept the smaller of those things that the Council says I own, would the larger and far noisier of the two go and leave me in peace!?" he snapped. 

"Not willingly," Obi-Wan whispered, hurt suddenly very audible in his voice. "Your padawan and your lightsaber are both part of you, Qui-Gon Jinn." 

Qui-Gon gave him a sharp glance that did not entirely disguise his worry in spite of his best efforts, but Obi-Wan's expression was filled with perfect Jedi serenity. 

"I must admit, I am not precisely certain why you chose to abandon your rank." Obi-Wan trusted his voice to say smooth, and it nearly did. "Or your padawan." 

"Because I had failed as a Jedi and as your Master." Qui-Gon responded roughly, his own hurt now evident in the harshness of his voice. Having Obi-Wan nearby was pure torment to him. The memory of the young man's clean, lithe limbs flashing in torchlight, movement burdened by chains ... the small helpless sounds that had spasmed in his throat during their harsh lovemaking ... the faint whispering hiss of the hot iron searing his bare flesh .... Qui-Gon shuddered. 

"Mas... Qui-Gon." Obi-Wan realized with relief that they were approaching the other man's rented rooms at last, and he invited himself inside nonchalantly when Qui-Gon failed to extend the courtesy to him. The warning flash of eyes was defused, albeit grudgingly, by the change to his chosen form of address. "Answer me a question," Obi-Wan petitioned soberly. 

The older man shrugged, defensively noncommittal. 

"Why do you believe the Council extended the right to accept or decline our last mission to me, not to you?" The wide eyes were guileless, but Qui-Gon knew better than to trust their innocence; this question would be more than it seemed. Like any good practitioner of legal inquiry, Obi-Wan knew better than to ask an idle question, especially if he had no idea of its answer. 

"Because you were at greatest risk," he replied heavily. "You deserved a chance to decline." 

"No." Obi-Wan approached him almost diffidently in spite of his brash answer. "Perhaps that was partly true, but it is not the real reason they did so, M... Qui-Gon." 

He had taught the boy too well -- too much of his own stubborn certainty in those hard blue eyes, too much sheer indomitable will. "Because ...." Qui-Gon hesitated irritably. Why? A dozen possible reasons. Whim. Foresight. A test. Sheer perverse meddling in a relationship where they strictly had no place. He chose an answer he hoped would please Obi-Wan. "Because you are growing older and more able to take responsibility to act independently." The words tasted unexpectedly bitter, and he blinked in surprise at that bitterness, knowing both it and the words for truth. 

Obi-Wan regarded him gravely. "You are much closer now," he nodded approval, watching as the judging nature of his words visibly rankled Qui-Gon. Obi-Wan sighed, refusing to relent. "It is because the mission was mine, Master." Obi-Wan deliberately used the honorific this time, his voice very soft, but the tone of it cool and stern as steel. "Anyone knows that a slave Master's lot is a pleasant one. We were not sent to verify that. Instead, we were sent to learn the station of the Riadan slave. Every experience I had, every action you were forced to take, was part of that learning, and rendered me capable of fulfilling my duty. If you had not let me be a slave, if you had protected me as you wished, I could not have carried out our -- my -- mission!" Obi-Wan's tone was urgent, but reasonable. 

"Observation --" 

"Only reveals a limited experience," Obi-Wan returned stubbornly. "Participation is the superior instructor." 

"You could as easily have told of branding without undergoing it!" Qui-Gon retorted angrily.

"I shall go to the bacta tanks if you return to accompany me to the Healers and order that I do it, my Master." Obi-Wan's voice was low now, earnest, the living Force laced heavily behind his words as he strove to make his will reality 

Qui-Gon shook his head fiercely, but Obi-Wan continued, unheeding. "I fell too far into Riadan culture, Master," he acknowledged. "I came to understand the slavery of love, and its motives, too well. This I admit freely, but I did so only because I knew ...." Obi-Wan hesitated, choosing words with care. "... how much I could trust you." 

Qui-Gon barked a sudden pained laugh, eyes flashing guilt at Obi-Wan. His pada-- the young man disregarded it, continuing softly. "The Council miscalculated when they sent us, Qui-Gon," Obi-Wan admitted softly. "They judged us poorly, not as Jedi but as men, and as teacher and pupil." 

Surprised, Qui-Gon glanced up, his interest piqued. "How so?" 

"They overestimated the ... closeness of our training bond, and of our whole relationship. They misjudged my faith that you loved me." Obi-Wan spoke wistfully. "And also my readiness to carry out such an emotionally demanding mission." He shrugged. "In that way, I failed you, Master. I asked for more support than I should, and for more than I required to fulfill the demands of our task. I wanted foolish proofs of what I should have already known, required more and more proofs of your love for me. I demanded to be given emotional and physical affections that you were not prepared to offer. In this way, my failure easily rivals -- and actually caused -- your own." 

Obi-Wan sighed. "And the Council ... their worst error lay in two mistaken assumptions." He turned away, pretending unconcern but refusing to meet Qui-Gon's eyes. "They did not understand that unresolved emotional concerns would influence us." He crossed the room, examining a spot of rough wood where a jagged splinter had been torn from the stark dresser. "They believed ..." he tried to force his voice to pure smoothness. "That we shared the full telepathic link possible in the training bond." By the Force, he would not let Qui-Gon know how much the discovery of that omission had hurt him. "And there is more, Master ... I believe the Council chose us partly due to the erroneous belief that ..." His chuckle was more than a little nervous. "... that we were already lovers." 

Obi-Wan felt the words shiver through him as though Qui-Gon had never touched or taken his body. Lovers. To have been Qui-Gon Jinn's young lover, his cherished bedmate, chosen and taken voluntarily and in love. A sorrow-fractured dream. He set his sorrow aside resolutely. It was not to be; it had never been meant to be. He was grateful for what he had been grudgingly given, though, and he knew he would always secretly cherish the bittersweet memories of that beloved touch on him and inside him. 

"If either or both of the Council's unspoken assumptions had been true, our trust and readiness for the mission on Ria would have been far greater for it. Our shames, our fears ... they would never have become factors in our actions." Obi-Wan shrugged, apologetic. "And what reason did the Council have to believe that the first assumption would not be true? We have always worked together exceptionally well, coordinating our actions and words as well as any Master and padawan team in the Temple. As for the second ... they could hardly ask, since to answer might have been to incriminate ourselves, label ourselves in violation of a tacit provision of the Code. They hoped to make use of the condition if it existed, and who could blame them?" 

He made himself turn then, hoping his brave front was adequately opaque. "Come, Qui-Gon. Master. Let us place this blame fairly and equitably. It is not solely our own to bear. You have taught me that adversity strengthens a true Jedi. Let us take that to heart now, accept our errors and learn from them, without letting them destroy us." 

Obi-Wan fished in his pack, withdrawing the cloth-wrapped bundle he had carried so tenderly for such a long distance. Qui-Gon shook his head, but his eyes were riveted to the small packet with undisguised longing. 

"Master Yoda will never forgive me if I fail," Obi-Wan teased, very gently. "I succeed in one difficult mission, so he assigns me a harder." His smile was infectious, though somehow Qui-Gon thought it still seemed sad. "Will you spoil my perfect record, my Master? What a harm to the Jedi it would be, if my thoughtlessness cost them your service." 

Force. Emotionally insecure or not, the boy was Jedi to the bone, malleable spirit molded irrevocably in Qui-Gon's own harsh and relentless image. And yet how eternally resilient Obi-Wan was, how optimistic and filled with strange, mercurial humor, astonishing in both his strength and weakness. How strong and courageous he was now, in spite of all that had happened. 

Without his conscious volition, Qui-Gon's hand moved forward and his palm curled around the cloth-wrapped hilt of the saber. Obi-Wan smiled, his expression melting into relief and pure pleasure. 

How could such happiness be? He had hurt Obi-Wan so badly. Through their entire association, over and over, deliberate and inadvertent adversities, all transmuted into this hard strength, the learning pains meted out in measured doses to mold boy into man and man into Jedi Knight. But in spite of it all, in spite of physical abuse and emotional abandonment, this young man stood before Qui-Gon, inviting him to return to the Jedi for the good of the galaxy rather than merely the desires of his own heart. Stood there offering back the control he had taken from Qui-Gon, both fairly and unfairly. Stood there as Qui-Gon's padawan, not his lover or slave. 

Obi-Wan rightly expected him to accept and administer the harsh role of Jedi Mastery, whatever it might demand of both of them, and yet in his face there was only trust and grace, and love. It was a love that Obi-Wan very clearly believed was not returned to him, a love which even now Qui-Gon could feel being wrapped as gently and reverently as his lightsaber had been, wrapped and interred deeply away where it would not disturb him across their bond with its living presence and need. And still there was that quiet, simple happiness, welling from the knowledge that his Master was not lost: first to the Jedi, and second to him. 

"I am a fool." Qui-Gon let the cloth slip from his lightsaber, examining it slowly, as though looking at it for the first time. "Such a fool that I have closed you from my heart, left you to find evidence of your worth only in pain ...." His throat threatened to close, and did, but he could not stop the flow of words now. He felt the walls of his mind falling fully open for the first time in nearly a decade, felt his padawan's aura of sweetness next to him, reached and embraced it. I have failed to temper your training with the love and trust you deserve, Obi-Wan. Forgive me. 

Master. The word was rich with Obi-Wan's feelings, love and timid wonder. Acceptance. Obi-Wan reached tentatively across their bond, reverently touching the words of Qui-Gon's heart and mind, so long denied him. You have never failed me. 

And though he had, perhaps he had not, as well. For Obi-Wan's mind was opening like a flower, and he felt himself blossom as well, tight-shut petals turning to press against the light, releasing his long-buried love for his apprentice. And there was nothing of darkness or hurt in it, only relief and pleasure that the sad days of loss and longing were gone. For both of them. 

Love sank deep between them, unexpressed depths of emotion weaving them together tightly in a happiness that was almost unbearable. Qui-Gon let himself stroke his apprentice's heart, sliding fingers of thought through emotion, hesitantly touching the memories that had caused him such guilt and finding the pleasure Obi-Wan had taken from them, the reassurance, the twin fulfillment of duty and desire. And in turn Obi-Wan soothed him, eased his remorse, forgiving him and giving fully of his happiness until Qui-Gon was consumed by it, healed and made whole by the knowledge that he had not destroyed either of them in his clumsiness and fear. 

As the connection deepened, the sensation of love built in strength, blossoming between them, kindling understanding and wondrous desire.... Qui-Gon felt tears sting his eyes, a sharp pang of regret that he had blindly denied this to them both, that it had very nearly taken the destruction of everything they both cherished to force him to relent and release his fear. He felt himself healing, growing strong again along with the bond he had so desperately tried to deny for so long. 

And with his regret came the knowledge that there was still a sense of tilted balance between them, a slight wrongness at the root of Qui-Gon's earlier bitterness, the last stains of failure in his heart. Resentment at change, resistance to the apprentice become Master. Boy become man. Padawan become paramour. Student become teacher. 

Accept. Accept the past, accept the future. Let this love be equal between them. Let fear go, and trust in Obi-Wan for the rest. 

Returning to awareness of his body, he felt the cool weight of the saber filling his palm and let his finger slide over the controls, adjusting the power to a much lower setting than the norm. You are not alone, Obi-Wan. Your hands are upon my body and soul as surely as mine have formed yours, he mused. I have denied you the right to see what you have wrought in me. But if you would, I would ask something of you, as you asked it of me.<

Qui-Gon reversed the saber, holding it out to his padawan. Obi-Wan accepted it reverently, startled when it hummed to subdued life in his hand ... such a thing was rare. The individual imprint of the living Force on a Jedi's chosen weapon typically governed its use. Qui-Gon smiled. It was well that Obi-Wan could ignite his weapon. One day, he might have need of it. As he did today. 

The Jedi Master moved to strip, kicking off his boots, sliding away his tunic, and pushing down the waistband of his trousers, eventually baring himself completely before the young man. Obi-Wan watched curiously, head tilted, waiting and wondering what was to come. 

"Claim me, my padawan." He nodded at the dim glow of the low-powered blade, barely visible in the daylight but thrumming with life and power in Obi-Wan's hand. "Your mark upon me, as you like -- so that my body may match my heart." As yours does. The symbol of their love, of their mutual mastery, and of the rebirth of what they were to one another ... a tangible reminder to Qui-Gon that it was time to begin to yield his stubborn dominance to the brilliant young Jedi his student was rapidly becoming. 

Obi-Wan swallowed hard, clear blue eyes clouding with reluctance for the barest moment, then nodded and knelt. 

Qui-Gon reached and braced himself against the doorframe, feeling Obi-Wan's palm smooth over his skin. Then the boy's lips, tenderly brushing the spot he had selected. Qui-Gon sighed, sank into his center, ready for the pain, accepting it, dispersing it through himself and into the Force as Obi-Wan had done so long ago. Three small swift strokes of purest flame, Qui-Gon's eyes resting on his apprentice, watching the way Obi-Wan's teeth closed on his lower lip in care and concentration, watching the unshaking hands, the dim glow of his own green blade. Watching the boy sign his body, a small, graceful letter K flaring on his right abdomen, the placement of the love-brand a mirror image of Obi-Wan's own. 

Qui-Gon smiled. 

Obi-Wan set aside the lightsaber, and Qui-Gon watched a bead of sweat trickle down the young man's throat. Obi-Wan laid his cheek softly against his Master's groin and lifted his hand, trailing it lightly over the fresh brand, cooling energy soothing, healing the marked skin. Qui-Gon let his eyes close, savoring the gentle contact and the feel of his beloved's mark on his body. 

Then the young Jedi raised his head to Qui-Gon, eyes shining, pushed himself to his feet, and drew his Master against him, young strong arms closing around Qui-Gon's back. 

Yours, Qui-Gon breathed to him across their bond, and heard it echoed back to him aloud. He could almost feel the living Force arc sharply between them, and his padawan's building arousal sparked his own, flaring through their bond. 

His padawan's hands were skimming his bare flesh now, learning and tasting him thoroughly, as they had not been permitted to do before. The touch of an aggressor, or of an equal. Qui-Gon luxuriated in it, sighing. Yes. Yes. 

Our mission was the test of the cave, Master, Obi-Wan caressed Qui-Gon with his mind. What did you bring with you? 

You. 

The admission shattered Qui-Gon suddenly, and Obi-Wan felt it instantly through the new depth of their bond. And finally he understood the extent of Qui-Gon's reaction. It was not merely their past mission, but a thousand fractured fears and failed futures flashing through his Master's mind and taunting his heart. Obi-Wan turning, as Xanatos had, because now that Qui-Gon had succumbed to his love for his padawan, he could wrap his Master around his little finger and do just as he pleased -- as Xanatos had done. Qui-Gon's caring for Obi-Wan distracting him from his duty as a Jedi, causing missions to fail and worlds to crumble. Qui-Gon's power over Obi-Wan causing his padawan to become a true slave, to lose his newfound strength and subsume himself in his Master. The Council separating them. Obi-Wan's Knighthood trials separating them somehow in discord and darkness. Qui-Gon becoming old, burdening his beautiful padawan with caring for an invalid. And worst of all, somewhere ... somewhere along that long, motion-filled web of the future ... down a thousand paths, down them all, there was the inevitability of parting, of having Obi-Wan torn from him by his padawan's death or Qui-Gon's own, the sundering of their love shattering the surviving partner beyond repair .... 

Obi-Wan drew his Master quickly into his arms, pulling the older man's head to his shoulder and sliding his hands into the long mane of hair, tangling it around his fingers. "There is no death. Only the Force. Do not listen to fears, my Master." He laid his cheek against Qui-Gon's hair, stroking his Master's back with fierce gentleness. _You have always shielded me in your strength. Now rest safe in mine until you are whole._

Qui-Gon's answer was a long wordless sigh, and he surrendered. 

Obi-Wan felt him let go, experienced that gentle release as though it were his own -- the burden of the Jedi Master and the worries of the man falling from weary shoulders, replaced by acceptance of all that was, and is, and would be ... all given to the moment, given over to him as the author of that moment, leaving him in control. Letting him choose the way of their future together. 

He caught his Master's heart very gently and held it in trust, as he had done with Qui-Gon's lightsaber, carrying it until his Master agreed to accept his rank and position among the Jedi again. Unimaginably precious, this gift. 

Slowly he brought his thumb under Qui-Gon's jaw, lifting his Master's head to him, kissing him with gentle possessiveness. Perfect acquiescence, the taste of it unimaginably glorious, and he felt the resonance with Qui-Gon's experiences of Obi-Wan's own love-filled surrender. Half-parted lips, yielding response drawing him deeper. The heady rush of the moment's power as he gently pressed Qui-Gon to step back until his Master's legs rested against the narrow dining table, then continued to push slowly until Qui-Gon lay over it with Obi-Wan's hands resting on his shoulders. 

The flutter of his Master's pulse was visible in his throat and his hair cascaded gracefully over the dark wood. Obi-Wan felt his eyes drawn to the fresh brand at his hip, felt a flicker of sympathetic awareness of his own. Then his eyes were drawn to the center of Qui-Gon's body, where his Master's erection lay, slowly thickening, responding to their kisses and now swelling faster under the pressure of the young man's eyes. 

"So beautiful." The whispered words resounded along their newly widened bond. He traced a slow finger from the hollow of Qui-Gon's throat to his navel, watching the older man's erection surge in response to the light, sensual caress. He met the burning gleam of blue visible between his Master's half-shut lids, and felt himself smile. Once he'd surrendered, Qui-Gon was as eager as Obi-Wan. 

The knowledge spurred his passion, and he slowly began to peel away his clothing, taking pleasure in the sensation of Qui-Gon's eyes on him. The Jedi Master was as attentive as if he had never seen Obi-Wan bare before him; the long days of Obi-Wan's exposure had blunted none of his pleasure in his padawan's lithe form. Obi-Wan blushed a little at the hunger in Qui-Gon's hooded gaze, unclothing himself quickly, eager to feel his Master's skin against his own. 

Kicking away his discarded boots, he stepped forward with a sigh, lifting Qui-Gon's knees and laying his Master's calves against his shoulders, bending and turning his head to nip lightly at the tender flesh at the inside of the quivering knee. Qui-Gon made a soft sound of almost shy delight, hooking his ankles behind Obi-Wan's neck as Obi-Wan let his erection nudge his Master's soft testicles and then pushed it forward to slide next to Qui-Gon's as the young Jedi brought his hips against the older man's. 

"Mine," Obi-Wan purred, quivering with pleasure of his own as he watched Qui-Gon's stomach tense in anticipation and desire. "You're mine." He trailed his fingers up and down the back of Qui-Gon's thighs, tracing the crease of his hips, tickling the tender flesh between the tendons of his knees with his thumbs. He rocked his hips, his penis nudging Qui-Gon's shaft near its base. The Jedi Master's hands clenched to fists on the edge of the table, an effort to brace himself closer to his padawan's teasing flesh. 

It wasn't enough, not for either of them. Gently Obi-Wan disengaged Qui-Gon's legs from his neck and helped him lower them, then moved to the side of the table. Lovingly he trailed a hand up his Master's side, testing hard muscle draped in silky skin. He bent and kissed Qui-Gon slowly, fingernails raking lightly up the washboard abdomen, tracing wide circles around nipples he knew ached for his touch. He flickered his tongue into Qui-Gon's mouth quickly, then withdrew and sucked gently on his Master's full lower lip, lightly pinching one straining nipple between thumb and forefinger. 

Qui-Gon arched, moaning into him, and Obi-Wan smiled against the kiss, sliding his arm around the larger man and raising him slightly off the table until their chests pressed together. Qui-Gon's arm came up to wrap around him, and he gave serious attention to the kiss, letting awareness melt away until all that remained was the liquid of mouth and the heat of body, merging with the fiery surges of pleasure and lust that slid along their bond, deep wordless communication of bodies and souls. 

Obi-Wan let his hands roam over his Master, imprinting every inch of the older man's flesh into his own skin and memory. So beautiful, so sweet, so hard ... and his. Wholly, unreservedly his. He groaned, burying his face in Qui-Gon's neck, scratching his cheek against the stubble of beard, licking away gathering droplets of sweat. His desire was spiraling beyond control, and he let his palm slide downward again, all the way down, until it closed around his Master's solid, hot shaft. 

Qui-Gon bucked, crying out sharply, thrusting his hips up in a wordless, urgent plea. The padawan smiled, stroking delicately over the crown, smearing with his thumb the sticky wetness that waited there. Coyly, he lifted his hand and laid it against his lips, then drew the gleaming digit into his mouth. Qui-Gon took a shuddering breath, watching Obi-Wan suckle away his essence, the young man scraping his teeth over the pad of his thumb. 

Obi-wan licked his thumb one last time, letting his eyelids sink shut, savoring the last lingering saltiness of his Master. Leaning forward, he nuzzled Qui-Gon's ear. "I'm going to take you now," he breathed. 

Qui-Gon shivered, tongue darting out to lick his lips, his fists once again clenching tight on the edge of the table, knuckles whitening, tendons straining. Obi-Wan slowly kissed his way down his Master's body, dipping his tongue into the perspiring navel, nuzzling the coarse pubic hair, drinking deeply of the salty, bitter odor of musk and sweat. He paused to brush the lightest of kisses over Qui-Gon's still-tender brand, hands gently kneading Qui-Gon's taut hips. 

"Yes..." Qui-Gon sighed, more plea than permission. 

Obi-Wan glanced around quickly, summoned a bottle of cooking oil to his hand. He sniffed it experimentally, satisfying himself of its safe, vegetable base. Warming it lightly with a subtle application of the Force, he unscrewed the cap and tipped a measure of the thick, clear fluid into his Master's navel. 

Qui-Gon's fists tightened even further, his nails digging at the dully polished wood as Obi-Wan reached and drew a slow line of the warmed oil down along the center of his body. He climbed up, kneeling over his Master, and bent forward until the tip of his penis nudged into Qui-Gon's navel, sending oil welling over the ridged plane of Qui-Gon's belly. 

Obi-Wan caught the overflow in his palms, smoothing it onto his penis slowly, luxuriating in the warmth and the sensation of Qui-Gon helpless beneath him. He nestled his hips down, Qui-Gon's erection settling in the cleft, and rocked his body gently back and forth until his Master moaned. Satisfied, Obi-Wan leaned forward and kissed his lips lightly, then vaulted quickly from the table and moved to stand between Qui-Gon's thighs. His Master eagerly lifted his knees and twined his ankles behind Obi-Wan's neck once more. 

Taking another palmful of oil, Obi-Wan slowly stroked himself, lavishing the fluid on thickly, aware that every instant of delay was driving Qui-Gon's anticipatory tension higher. He smiled, brushing his cheek against Qui-Gon's calf, probing gently until he settled against the entrance to his Master's body. 

In almost immeasurable increments, he gradually increased the pressure, feeling the tight opening begin to give way. He withdrew and poured more oil, then pressed again, harder. Qui-Gon gave a strangled sob of relief as his body yielded, slowly enclosing the crown of Obi-Wan's erection. His hands rose to caress his own chest and nipples, and Obi-Wan caught his wrists, forcing them down, making him grasp the table again. 

Qui-Gon rocked, desperate to take more, but Obi-Wan withdrew partway, teasing, until he stopped. Again. Hard this time, but still only slightly further than he had pressed before. Qui-Gon gasped, his legs locking, but though he pulled his padawan's head forward, Obi-Wan withheld himself, maddening Qui-Gon, drawing the penetration out leisurely. 

When his Master stilled, he pressed forward delicately, savoring the slow slide inward, rocking forward a fraction further each time, pulling back until only the crown remained buried in his Master, only to tip more oil onto himself and plunge again, deeper than before. He earned a hoarse cry as he finally thrust at just the right spot, causing Qui-Gon to arch, thrashing his head, moaning Obi-Wan's name from between dry lips. 

"Say it again," Obi-Wan whispered, struggling for control, hands clasping Qui-Gon's hips. 

He did, a long sobbing groan, and Obi-Wan pressed steadily, sheathing himself fully at last, feeling his hips settle firmly against Qui-Gon's. His Master's tight velvet heat clenched around him and he hissed with pleasure. 

"Please, my padawan," Qui-Gon gasped. "Please." 

"My Master," Obi-Wan purred, "your wish is my command." He drew back and then thrust quickly, burying himself to the root in willing warmth. 

A low scream was wrung from Qui-Gon's chest, and Obi-Wan hesitated, reaching along their bond for pain, but there was none, only a cascade of need and lust and love. It drowned him, overwhelming him -- he was the giver, the needed, the beloved. His hips pumped frantically as he responded to that need, the giving and taking simultaneous and beautiful between them. His trembling hand wrapped around Qui-Gon's thick hardness, and he stroked in time with his own wild thrusts, instinctively using the Force to hold Qui-Gon still when his Master's frantic thrashing threatened to make the claiming impossible. 

He could sense it coming, the Force pouring through him, enhancing his senses. He could fairly taste his Master's desperate sweat, feel the tingle of his skin, run his fingers along the curls and hollows of memory and soul as they twined ever tighter, Obi-Wan's thighs aching, his penis quivering, balls aching as he held off, struggling to wait until Qui-Gon reached it too ... just ... coming, just ... Now. 

Shouts melded with an explosion of ecstasy, and Obi-Wan collapsed, pitching forward onto the sweat and oil-slicked chest, unsure whether the heartbeat thundering against his ribs was Qui-Gon's or his own. And then he realized that their hearts were beating in tandem. 

Yours. The joined voice was rich with the soft timbre of his Master, bright with his own ecstasy and optimism. No longer a question of mastery or ownership, only perfect sharing ... and at last, peace. Obi-Wan sighed with contentment, nestling closer on Qui-Gon's chest, feeling his Master's strong fingers stroke his hair as together, they bid farewell to the cave of fear. 

**Author's Note:**

> YES, the J and the K brands are actually the Aurebesh equivalents of J (jenth) and K (krill). _hides under a rock from all the many complaints over that I've received these past 18 years_


End file.
